Jazzed

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Matt Dillon felt like dirty laundry. And he didn’t look much better. He had been awake for close to twenty-four hours but his mind was still remarkably clear and focused. For a man of sixty-four it was surprising. But then he did have a superb mind; for names, facts, and figures. He could analyze a report then several months later, in a meeting, he would surprise everyone with a string of long forgotten data. His memory and analytically skills were the chief reason he had rocketed to the pinnacle of his profession.

Matt Dillon was the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

There was a knock on his office door. He glanced across his desk looking for any confidential documents and, finding none, he picked up the half-bottle of scotch and slipped it into the lower drawer of his desk. He pushed the security buzzer.

“Come.”

The door swung back and an executive aid rolled a serving cart to the front of his desk. “Breakfast, sir.”

Dillon wasn’t a sunny good morning kinda guy and the aid, understandably, avoided the pleasantries. Instead, he placed a mug and a full pot of scalding hot coffee before the Director. Followed by a covered plate.

“Is Spencer out there?”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell him to get in here. And to bring his own damned mug.”

“Of course, sir.” And the aid quickly left, rolling his cart along in front.

Dillon poured coffee and jolted it with booze from the lower drawer. He uncovered his breakfast: Three poached eggs, six slices of buttered toast, and a generous pot of strawberry jam. Same as always. He liked consistency and customary practice.

He spread jam on a piece of toast, mushed one of the eggs into it and took a bite; he wiped his chin with a napkin.

There was another knock.

“Sir.”

Spencer’s large, affable head peered around the door-frame. “Come. Come.” Dillon waved the agent forward into his office. “Coffee?”

“Thanks, but no. Had mine at home.”

“Home? Humph!”

Special agent Spencer dropped into one of the Director’s visitor chairs. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like shit... sir. You could stand some shut-eye.”

Dillon smiled blandly. “Thanks. You’re in line for my wife’s job. I’ll put her on notice, if I ever see the poor cow again. Now tell me, how’s our newest US citizen?”

Dillon’s newest US citizen was a Russian dancer. He had turned from a standing ovation in Toronto, walked, in full costume and makeup, out the stage door and into a waiting limousine. The next morning he was at the Langley Air Force Base in Virginia.

“He’s still talking. Very cooperative, in fact. I’ll have my report and a transcript of the audio tapes on your desk in an hour. How did he check out, yesterday?”

“Everything he told you is dead on. I spent twelve hours going over the satellite imaging. I counted two convoys, a total of forty trucks descending on the town of Vologda, east of Moscow. They’ll be carrying arms and ammunition. And another convoy heading north from Pakistan. That will be the missiles. Your boy’s right on the money, Spence. No telling how long it’s been going on.”

“What gets me is how come we’re only finding out about it now?”

“Because we got no one on the God damned ground over there,” Dillon growled. “I’d trade all these crap spy satellites for one good agent planted under Chenkov’s nose. But with the budget cuts from the previous administration; and now the current bozo, we’re left holding the bag. I need someone over there; to cleanup. But who and how do I get them on the inside?”

Spencer straightened and snapped his fingers; a sound that Dillon detested but was willing to tolerate from his number two. “I might just have something for you there. Can you Google something for me: Dance America Magazine.”

“Dance?”

“Yes. The current issue.”

Dillon shrugged and slid open the top drawer of his desk to reveal a console that controlled a projector and lowered a screen at the end of the room. On his keyboard he typed and hit search. The url address came up and he hit enter. Then scrolled down.

“There. That’s the story: “American Dance Demon!”

Dillon selected the story and it opened up on the projection screen. A large photograph of Bobby filled the wall. “He still alive?” asked Dillon, somewhat amazed.

“Apparently.” Spencer started reading the article; the same one he had read on his sofa the evening before, just before his wife walked in. Dillon was following along.

“Moscow... ” Dillon breathed. “A tour. A performance tour of Europe.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer confirmed. “Following London and Paris: Moscow... The Bolshoi.”

“s**t. Just maybe... Let me think a moment.”

Dillon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He mulled it over for a minute before stirring.

“Well?” Dillon was hopeful.

“I think it could work. Fourteen dancers, support staff, management, all traveling together across Europe. We could plant our operative with the right papers and a passport.” Dillon suddenly sat forward, clearly motivated. “Okay. We have a vehicle. But an operative?”

“We don’t dare use one of our own people. If our man was discovered the international backlash would be devastating. To us, and the Administration.”

“Yeah. The President would finally have an excuse to clean house at Langley,” Dillon added. “He’s been itching to terminate the top brass here ever since he got elected. He wants to run the show himself. With a botched CIA conspiracy, he would have his excuse. You and I would be sidelined in the first wave of cuts.”

“Where does a middle-aged CIA operative find employment?”

“You could do what I’m going to do: Write a book.”

“Good plan. But you’d have to learn to spell first.”

“I can spell ‘f**k-up’ just fine, thanks.”

Neither one of them laughed.

Dillon chewed on a piece of toast, thoughtfully. “You said ‘man’ didn’t you?”

“Man?”

“Mmm. You said, ‘if our man was discovered’ ... but maybe... ”

“Yes?”

“I may have an idea,” Dillon continued. “When was the last time you were in New York?”

“New York? The City, sir?”

“Remember that problem the Israelis had? We helped them out with that girl: Tzivia Azaria.”

“Sure. That’s going back a bit, but I remember. Taz, they called her. We got her posted with the NYPD. She’s a flippin’ psychopath, sir! Unless someone finally got the better of her.”

“Exactly,” the Director said. “A psychopathic killer. And I got the feeling that no one could get close enough to that loose wire without getting a jolt; certainly not close enough to get the better of her. I want you to review her dossier and if she looks promising, check on a flight to New York. Report back here within the hour.

“Yes sir.” Spencer turned quickly toward the door and closed it securely behind leaving Dillon alone with his thoughts. Dillon slouched back in his chair and mulled it over.

By all rights he should contact the Chief of Security; pass all he knew along to the White House. He would, in all likelihood, be called in to brief the President, personally. But that bozo couldn’t be trusted to keep a lid on it. He would want to publicly take credit for the information and parley it into a second term in office. And to do that the clandestine maneuvers Russian General, Chenkov, and his upstart political party were making, forging an alliance with the Pakistanis, would have to be made public knowledge. The President would spill the beans.

The President’s first phone call would be to his Press Secretary, the ass. They would put a nice spin on it, making it sound like it was the President’s initiative and then hold a press conference. Once the newspapers got the story the Russians would know they had been found with their pants down around their ankles. They would quickly shuffle their plans and his chance to eliminate Chenkov’s position of power would evaporate. Poof.

Dillon massaged his gritty eyeballs.

He knew he could trust Spencer; and then suddenly, from outta the blue, came a vision of the man’s wife. Dillon relaxed a little, eased back and pulled open the top desk drawer; the one that contained the console.

It had been awhile since he had thought of her, visited her dossier. He knew the file, verbatim of course, but the images of her were always a pleasant diversion. He punched several buttons and the projector glowed. Another flick of a switch and darkness closed in as the overheads were extinguished.

Dillon rattled away at his computer keyboard and a holographic image of Mrs. Jill Spencer materialized in three-dimension at the end of his office. Except for the fact she was enlarged to almost twice her normal size, the image was so finely focused, so precise in detail, the woman may as well have been standing there in person gazing intently into his eyes.

The photograph had been captured by one of his surveillance photographers four years earlier when Spencer had first been approved for promotion to his personal staff. Jill had been the subject of a routine background check. But what he had discovered about the woman had been anything but routine.

He studied her image now, carefully, enjoying her tawny features. The photograph had been taken as she stood poised on the stone steps of her Washington dance studio. In her business jacket and wielding a leather briefcase she had the clear, intelligent look of a successful attorney; not a dance instructor. She was a striking woman with feline features and even in middle age, her legs were lithesome and supple. And though her tiny ass wasn’t evident from where he sat, he knew it to be high and solidly placed.

Jill Spencer, daughter of a senator, had enjoyed a pampered life growing up in New England. The family was well heeled and young Jill had attended the best schools. Her winters had been spent on the ski slopes of Quebec’s Eastern Townships. And in the summer, she rode the trails of those same mountains on horseback. The constant exercise had brought muscle and definition to her legs. And bouncing in a leather saddle hadn’t hurt her ass any. Dillon smiled to himself at the thought.

He pressed the remote and another image of Jill appeared.

She seemed to be suspended in midair; her back was arched, an arm extended, her heels kicked high. She was so slim. It was one of her early publicity shots. And at the time she had been nineteen years old. And yet the maturity and confidence of a seasoned performer was hard to miss. He pondered her face. She had the proud remote look of a lioness: steely cat-eyes, a long aristocratic nose, and a massive mane of blonde hair.

Jill’s passion from a young age and what was to become the focus of her life, was jazz dance. She devoted her teenage years to perfecting the craft. And she excelled. She turned pro. And then Broadway called. She had knocked around for a year without much success and, defeated, she had come to terms with her ego and had slept with someone. Personally for her, it must have felt like she had hit rock bottom but her professional career soared: Back to back smash hit Broadway musicals. Suddenly every booking agent in the City had a contract ready for her to sign.

Dillon’s palms began to sweat. He had one more photograph. The best.

He pressed the remote and Mrs. Jill Spencer stood before him, practically naked, wearing only a ragged tank-top that barely covered her breasts. Dillon chuckled and reached down to squeeze the front of his slacks.

Jill was standing at her bedroom window, washed from head to toe in moonlight. Her arm was raised, poised to draw the curtain across. The stance had lifted a corner of her tank-top revealing the lower fullness of her right breast. Her eyes were focused, studying the darkness, as if she had heard the snap of the photographer’s lens: Been shutter-buggered. And sitting behind her on the corner of the bed, a young man watched nervously. Dillon studied the guy; was envious of the education the teenager was about to receive between Mrs. Spencer’s thighs.

She was twice the young man’s age, and many more times experienced. A background check had determined that the kid was a university student; a member of the varsity wrestling team. That was in keeping with Jill’s taste for younger athletic men. A couple of times a year it seemed, she went out on the prowl. Spencer didn’t know, of course, just as he didn’t know Dillon could enjoy a close-up view of his wife’s p***y anytime he pleased.

Jill Spencer had enjoyed younger men, perhaps many of them. The research confirmed three such men in the last couple of years: all very discrete rendezvouses. The woman was careful. She would meet the boy, bed him, and never lay eyes on him again. From a security standpoint it looked bad for her husband, but the fact that Jill’s father was a senator had bought her extra points. And Dillon liked Spencer. So, while the CIA monitored the situation closely, Mrs. Spencer’s perverse yearly wanderings were overlooked; at least for the present. And the fact that she was a beautiful woman swayed Dillon to cut her a little slack. Someday she may be grateful; grateful enough to show him a little courtesy. Make him feel young again. He could only hope.

He got up from his desk and approached the holograph. She was so real-looking Dillon almost expected her head to turn; her eyes followed him across the room. The photo had been taken almost four years earlier meaning she was thirty-eight. And yet her body was just as seductive as it had been when she was photographed at nineteen. She had filled out a bit but was still sleek and slim, and still well muscled.

Dillon dropped down a little, tilted his head. She had a mess of tangled hair between her legs, parted low by swollen lips. They protruded: Heavy, open and raw; bursting with syrup. She was secreting heavily and in the holograph, he could see droplets caught up in the scruffy curls, reflecting pin-points of moonlight.

Dillon humphed. He wondered about the young man again; the one in the background. Dillon longed for that. What would it be like, to be eighteen again, and have Jill Spencer, forty-two years old, approach you for a ride home? A ride that would inevitably end up in her bed. The thought of it was almost imperceptible.

Dillon went back to his desk and m*********d; the heavy shadows hung about his shoulders.