Read Online Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1 by Sara M. Barton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara M. Barton
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me. He didn’t want me
thinking about the brutality of war and fragility of the human
spirit when subjected to great pressure. He had seen and done
things of which he chose never to speak, but he did them as a man
with as clear a conscience as possible. That meant he sometimes
brooded into the wee small hours of the night, sequestered in his
armchair before a roaring fire, remembering those whose lives were
lost, those whose lives were betrayed, those whose lives were
uprooted by all of the smoke and mirrors that was the cornerstone
of intelligence services and networks around the world. Ben lived
his life by a code of honor as best he could, clinging to it like a
life raft amidst the flotsam and jetsam of a disaster in an ocean
crowded by sharks. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to accept the
things he knew he had to do to get the job done. The life of a spy
wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t kind, but better men and women who
carried the mantle as Ben did, than to leave it to the Philippe
Grapons of the world. The French had their hands full with that
bastard.
We drove in silence, still twenty minutes
from the airport. I busied myself with the scenery, but even as I
watched the roadside fly by, I was struck by the possibilities.
What if Philippe was only working for the French, and they were
trying to help the Syrians? Why did Ben think the Syrians were
involved in the first place? And what if Philippe was following
orders for the French, and someone at Direction Générale de la
Sécurité Extérieure was the real bad guy? That’s the problem with
the spy business. You can be false-flagged so many times, you think
you’re working for the good guys, when it’s really the bad guys
pretending to be the good guys. Sometimes it’s the good guys,
pretending to be the bad guys, while still being the good guys.
Without a scorecard, it’s hard to tell who’s on the right side,
who’s on the wrong side, and even who’s on the winning side.
“Why did you say it might be the Syrians that
Grapon is working with?” I broke the silence with that
question.
“No real reason,” he told me, shaking his
head. Liar. No reason to let him get away with that, I decided.
“Ben, why did you say it might be the
Syrians?
“I might have heard a rumor from a birdie
across the river.” That usually meant someone in the Washington FBI
field office dropped a hint to the CIA liaison, who then passed it
along to the rightful heirs of the information, so they could act
on it appropriately.
“Meaning?”
“It’s possible that Grapon was photographed
meeting with a Russian and a Syrian counterpart on a hiking trail
in Damascus two weeks ago.”
“He was in Syria?”
Chapter Eight --
“No, Virginia. Damascus, Virginia. It’s up in
the Blue Ridge Mountains, near Mount Rogers National Recreation
area. It’s a favorite meeting area outside Washington for Middle
Easterners.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat surprised by the
revelation. It was scary to think bad guys were plotting along the
Appalachian Trail.
“When spies from hostile intelligence
services need to huddle together in the US and don’t want to get
caught at it, they find a US location with a foreign name. Say that
it’s Paris, Virginia, or maybe Berlin, Maryland. The CIA station
chief waits for them to show up in the announced locale overseas,
so it wastes CIA resources. Meanwhile, they’re really trying to
elude the FBI here in the States. If they provide their
conspirators with a set of GPS coordinates, hiding it on a blog or
in a chat room communication that isn’t noticed by law enforcement,
they can get together without any watchful eyes monitoring them
most of the time. In this particular case, they said openly in a
phone call that they would meet again in Damascus, like they
planned to go to Syria. Instead, they did some climbing in
Virginia. My little birdie friend said the Russian laid down some
sensors on the trail, so they would know when other folks
thinking about the brutality of war and fragility of the human
spirit when subjected to great pressure. He had seen and done
things of which he chose never to speak, but he did them as a man
with as clear a conscience as possible. That meant he sometimes
brooded into the wee small hours of the night, sequestered in his
armchair before a roaring fire, remembering those whose lives were
lost, those whose lives were betrayed, those whose lives were
uprooted by all of the smoke and mirrors that was the cornerstone
of intelligence services and networks around the world. Ben lived
his life by a code of honor as best he could, clinging to it like a
life raft amidst the flotsam and jetsam of a disaster in an ocean
crowded by sharks. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to accept the
things he knew he had to do to get the job done. The life of a spy
wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t kind, but better men and women who
carried the mantle as Ben did, than to leave it to the Philippe
Grapons of the world. The French had their hands full with that
bastard.
We drove in silence, still twenty minutes
from the airport. I busied myself with the scenery, but even as I
watched the roadside fly by, I was struck by the possibilities.
What if Philippe was only working for the French, and they were
trying to help the Syrians? Why did Ben think the Syrians were
involved in the first place? And what if Philippe was following
orders for the French, and someone at Direction Générale de la
Sécurité Extérieure was the real bad guy? That’s the problem with
the spy business. You can be false-flagged so many times, you think
you’re working for the good guys, when it’s really the bad guys
pretending to be the good guys. Sometimes it’s the good guys,
pretending to be the bad guys, while still being the good guys.
Without a scorecard, it’s hard to tell who’s on the right side,
who’s on the wrong side, and even who’s on the winning side.
“Why did you say it might be the Syrians that
Grapon is working with?” I broke the silence with that
question.
“No real reason,” he told me, shaking his
head. Liar. No reason to let him get away with that, I decided.
“Ben, why did you say it might be the
Syrians?
“I might have heard a rumor from a birdie
across the river.” That usually meant someone in the Washington FBI
field office dropped a hint to the CIA liaison, who then passed it
along to the rightful heirs of the information, so they could act
on it appropriately.
“Meaning?”
“It’s possible that Grapon was photographed
meeting with a Russian and a Syrian counterpart on a hiking trail
in Damascus two weeks ago.”
“He was in Syria?”
Chapter Eight --
“No, Virginia. Damascus, Virginia. It’s up in
the Blue Ridge Mountains, near Mount Rogers National Recreation
area. It’s a favorite meeting area outside Washington for Middle
Easterners.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat surprised by the
revelation. It was scary to think bad guys were plotting along the
Appalachian Trail.
“When spies from hostile intelligence
services need to huddle together in the US and don’t want to get
caught at it, they find a US location with a foreign name. Say that
it’s Paris, Virginia, or maybe Berlin, Maryland. The CIA station
chief waits for them to show up in the announced locale overseas,
so it wastes CIA resources. Meanwhile, they’re really trying to
elude the FBI here in the States. If they provide their
conspirators with a set of GPS coordinates, hiding it on a blog or
in a chat room communication that isn’t noticed by law enforcement,
they can get together without any watchful eyes monitoring them
most of the time. In this particular case, they said openly in a
phone call that they would meet again in Damascus, like they
planned to go to Syria. Instead, they did some climbing in
Virginia. My little birdie friend said the Russian laid down some
sensors on the trail, so they would know when other folks
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