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  Connect the Dots

  by Denise Robbins

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  Spring, Texas

  Copyright 2010 Denise Robbins

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN- 978-1-60318-165-5

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Dear Reader,

  CONNECT THE DOTS started out as a fictional story about my favorite hero, Jake Frisbie, and the Georgia-Russia war. I have a friend over in Tbilisi, Georgia and I wanted to know what was going on. . .what was really going on. Me being the geeky girl that I am, decided to do some research. You see, despite my technology background and experience, I am Internet search challenged. Sometimes that has its advantages.

  In the case of CONNECT THE DOTS, I accidentally came across an article about the BTC pipeline and how a terrorist group blew it up just days before the Georgia-Russia war. Well, one thing led to another and I wanted to know why, how, who, and what did that have to do with the Georgia-Russia war, not to mention our rising gas prices at the time.

  Then one morning at breakfast, my heroine, Charley Duston, presented herself to me as a Human Intelligence Officer. So great, cool, I have to figure out what that means, what she does, and how that fits in. Well, duh, I palm-slapped my forehead, I have a friend who is a. . .uh. . .in Intelligence. I reach out a very long ways and ask for a few pointers.

  Of course, that meant more research. I located and bought a copy of the US Army Field Manual which talked about ways to gather Intelligence. I did research on how to read people. By the way, scary stuff how accurate those little tell-tale scratches of the nose, or shifting of the eyes really are. It was when I accidentally ran across an article related to “black sites” that CONNECT THE DOTS took off and became the story you are about to read.

  I hope that you enjoy the story and that the story will entice you to connect your own dots.

  Denise

  DEDICATION

  There are those people you meet who pass through your life in a fleeting moment, then there are those who do not pass through, but stick around for the long haul and become real friends, and later something more, they become family.

  CONNECT THE DOTS is dedicated to the one man besides my father who has been a constant in my life, a significant influence, and the person who for whatever reason has an invisible link to me that can never be broken. This book is to Duane Scot Augustson.

  Duane,

  You have influenced my writing more than any person. A piece of you has been in every book I’ve written, but none more than CONNECT THE DOTS. The career you have chosen is not one many could endure and definitely not one I would have chosen, but I want to thank you for standing the wall. Thank you for helping keep me, my family, and every other American safe.

  Duane, this book is dedicated to you, your career, and your ability to be the compassionate person who cares for everybody within your realm. I only hope that this simple dedication can emphasize how much everyone you have touched appreciates you.

  Thank you for your friendship, your support, your wicked sense of humor even if it is in Russian, and thank you for your uncanny knack to appear in my life at the most unexpected but needed times.

  Come home soon!

  Denise

  ONE

  Tiny hairs danced on the back of Charley’s neck. Heart thrumming the ‘La Bamba’ inside her chest, she retrieved her Sig-Sauer from her case and set the bag noiselessly on the floor. Easing the door open wider with the toe of her shoe, she aimed the loaded 9-millimeter to the left then swept right covering the rest of the living and dining room. Nothing.

  Holding her breath, Charley listened for any sign of an intruder. She didn’t hear anything. Exhaling, she inched her way to the hall and peered around the corner. Nothing.

  She slipped off her shoes not wanting her heels to clack against the wood floor and alert whoever might be in her condo then headed toward the back of the house. Her first stop was the kitchen. It was empty. After checking the hall bath and the spare bedroom, Charley moved toward her room.

  Outside the door, she stopped in her tracks. It was shut. She never shut the door. Growing up, all doors were left open all the time, including the bathroom. Her father had taught her that leaving the doors open would be an easily recognizable sign of disturbance. Thieves and worse did not usually pay close attention to such things. She never shut doors. But this one was closed.

  Something niggled at her senses. A shiver ran up her spine as if someone had walked across her grave. Gnawing at her lower lip, Charley reached for the handle and turned the knob. Gun held at eye level, she pushed open the door and glanced around the room, sweeping it from left to right.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or out of place, but something was off. She knew it. The light brown string she always placed on the top of the front door between the frames when she left was now on the floor. Someone had definitely been inside her home. Who? Why?

  Shaking her head, she had no answer. As she turned to go back out to the living room and gather her belongings, Charley noticed it.

  Maybe she had jostled the box from its position when she had gotten clothes from the dresser before she left for her trip. That was possible. Wasn’t it? Yeah. That had to be it. Not entirely convinced, Charley reached for the box and the lid. Careful to touch only the corners, so as not to disturb or smudge any fingerprints, she opened it.

  Once the lid was up, she examined the red velvet interior. Everything appeared to be fine. The pearls handed down from her great-grandmother were there, as well as the diamond earrings her parents had given her for her high school graduation. Safely tucked away, lay the white gold watch that belonged to her father.

  Her mind at ease, Charley checked the time and noted she had less than an hour before she had to meet Kyle. She headed for her bag and that long-awaited shower.

  Standing under the hot spray, lightning struck, not literally. She shoved the curtain aside, stepped out of the shower, bumping her shin on the way out.

  “Ow.” She reached out, grabbed the towel that hung on the back of the door and dripped her way into the bedroom, wrapping the terry cloth around her.

  Once again, she opened the cherry wood box. This time, she slid back the secret panel and at the sight of its emptiness, gasped.

  “No!” It wasn’t there. Frantic, Charley took the box to the bed and with shaky fingers dumped its contents. She shoved everything aside and could not find it. Her father’s Purple Heart was gone.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, raked fingers through her wet hair and thought. When was the last time she had seen her father’s medal? She couldn’t remember. Could she have misplaced it? Charley shook her head and the wet, blonde mess fell in front of her face. No way. She did not misplace one of her last remembrances of her dad.

  “What else?” What else had they touched, stolen, left behind?

  Charley pushed her hair back out of her face and got to her feet. With absolute certainty that someone had invaded her space, she tugged on a pair of linen trousers and a cotton top then began a methodical search of the house, starting in the bedroom.

  She checked and re-checked the under sides of th
e bed and dressers, even dumped drawers. What a mess. It was when she moved the lamp from the nightstand that she noticed it. Charley bit her lip from screaming out. A bug! Under the base of the bedside lamp, someone planted a tiny recording device. She did not touch it. Instead, she left it and went to the other bedside lamp. Nothing there.

  Fury bubbled through her veins as she went from room to room tipping lamps over in search of more bugs. Whoever listened on the other end of the insect probably heard her movement, but then again, they probably wanted her to find the bugs, otherwise, why be so blatant. Nowadays, there were micro listening devices that would blend in with the environment.

  It did not matter. She still searched. In every gosh-darn room, she found a little critter. In the spare bedroom, slash office, it was under the light that sat on her desk. In the bathroom, the varmint was placed on the bottom of the candle that sat on the back of her toilet. Disgusting! Her fingers curled into the palm of her hand, her nails biting into the skin. Someone listened to her using the potty. Oh, my gosh!

  Charley ran for the living room. Panting, not from the short sprint but from fear, she lifted the handset, twisted off the end cap. Sure enough, someone planted another bug inside the belly of her phone. She clamped her eyes shut. Who? Why? And what was she to do about it?

  Wringing her hands, she contemplated calling in a technical services team. A technical services team specialized in exterminations of all kinds. They could bring in a device and sweep her place. Of course, whoever had planted the little gadgets already knew she was on to them.

  * * * *

  Leaving her house, Charley walked to Waldo’s Pizza, a few blocks from her condominium, to meet Kyle. According to his almost frantic voicemail he left her a few days ago, she was to meet him at their regular Friday night spot for dinner. Technically, they no longer had a regular Friday place as they had stopped dating several weeks back but she understood what he meant.

  When she walked into the busy restaurant, she saw no sign of Kyle. Where was he? He was as punctual as tax day. Biting her lower lip, she checked her watch and then the plate glass window of the pizzeria. No sign of Kyle’s car.

  Next up in line, she ordered a Hot and Sassy pizza and a Corona Light. The Hot and Sassy pizza was her own creation of pepperoni, prosciutto, feta cheese, and jalapenos. Waldo, the owner and World War II fighter pilot, happily added the concoction to his menu after she invited him to join her one night for dinner three years ago. Charley would listen to Waldo’s War stories while he ate her pizza. From then on, if she was in town on a Friday evening she would go in, grab a booth, and after she finished the first beer, Waldo would bring her a second one on the house and join her. Even when she had been dating Kyle, she made a point of still going to Waldo’s on Friday with or without him.

  Usually without.

  That was just one of the many differences between them that made the relationship not work. Kyle Cross, her ex-boyfriend and CIA Specialist, did not like to share, particularly her. He thought that they should spend Friday evenings together, just the two of them. Not that Charley was against alone time, but Waldo was a sweet older man who had no family, and she enjoyed his company and his stories. The straw that broke Kyle’s back was when on an overseas assignment, the detainee she had been questioning almost raped her in an interrogation room.

  The situation had been her mistake. She thought if she cleared the room from guards and interpreters, the detainee would speak openly with her. She miscalculated and it almost cost her. Well, it did cost her. Kyle had been furious with her, blamed her, took his anger out on her, and then walked out.

  “Good riddance to rubbish,” she muttered as she took her seat at her favorite booth.

  That had not been the end of their working relationship. They still worked for the same organization, just different parts of it. He was covert while she was overt. He did the completely clandestine espionage thing while she did the whole interrogation thing. Charley preferred to call it interviewing or debriefing. Interrogation made it sound mean and evil. Besides, she did not want to be linked with the other people in her organization and their joint counterparts who believed torture was legal and useful.

  That was why she was sitting at Waldo’s waiting for Kyle. They had started drafting a document on the use of so-called “enhanced interrogation techniques” to blow the whistle on the illegal and inhumane treatment of detainees. Charley glanced at her watch.

  “Ten minutes late.” Should she worry? Charley shook her head and took a sip of her beer. No. Don’t be ridiculous.

  There she sat, sipping her beer, waiting, wondering. Who broke into her apartment? Where was Kyle? For the third time, she checked her watch. Where could he be?

  Could she confide in Waldo? How much? He had shared so much with her, experienced more than she ever would about the military that she knew she could trust him. Just as her father had been before he died, Waldo was a good man to bounce ideas off. Whether the subject was good books to read, great recipes to try, or pest control, he would have a suggestion. Right now, she wanted help with a bug problem.

  “Charley, Mia.”

  Lost in her thoughts, Charley pulled herself out, looked up and beamed at the balding older man who stood at her table holding his arms out to her. She scooched across the booth, got to her feet, and was immediately enfolded in the man’s beefy arms in a bear hug. When he released her, she smiled at him again, kissed his cheek, and then they both took a seat in the booth opposite each other.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Short and sweet. Just the way I like it.”

  Waldo nodded and Charley took a drink of her beer.

  “What is wrong?”

  Her eyes widened at his perception.

  “Your hand shook,” he told her as if reading her mind.

  She glanced down and back up. “I’ve got a couple of small issues.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Kyle was supposed to meet me here. He’s late. He’s never late.”

  “I thought you two were finished.”

  Charley nodded. “We are, but we still work together.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps he got tied up with work.”

  “The jerk could have at least called me.”

  “The second problem?”

  “Hm? Oh. Just a pest problem I found when I returned home.”

  Waldo’s left eyebrow rose as his gaze narrowed on her. “What kind of pest?”

  “The kind with big ears,” she answered in a hushed voice then without hesitation pulled out of her pocket the one critter she stepped on to bring with her. Charley slid it across the table, lifted her palm, and showed Waldo.

  One of his beefy hands covered hers, she slipped her hand out, and he skated the device over to himself. Just then, their pizza was delivered. Waldo thanked the waiter and waived him away. Charley served up their slices onto paper plates while he examined the dead bug.

  “How many?” He asked the question without taking his eyes of the offending contraption.

  “Six minus that one.”

  “Where?”

  “Lamps and phone.”

  “Give me your cell phone.” It was not a request but a curt demand that Charley willingly complied.

  “You don’t really think…” She stopped talking when he popped the back off her phone, removed the battery, and revealed another, smaller bug. Charley had to cover her mouth to prevent the bile that rose in the back of her throat from escaping.

  “You need a new phone.”

  In the next instant, she did. Waldo simply laid it on the floor near his feet and stomped it.

  “Oops.”

  Charley laughed, a quick outburst but it felt good.

  “Mangia. Eat.”

  Unbelievably, she ate. When she left her apartment less than an hour ago, she hadn’t headed toward Waldo’s for the food, but rather for the work, company, and advice. Now, here she sat, enjoying her favorite pizza knowing that shortly Waldo would very h
appily guide her.

  “I thought about calling my boss and telling—” The shake of Waldo’s head cut off the rest of her sentence.

  “Not a good idea.” He finished his bite and spoke again. “You’ve been compromised. How do you know it isn’t your boss?”

  The pepperoni lodged in her throat, tears stung the back of her eyes, but she managed to swallow. Is that why she hadn’t called Grayson? Did she think he could be involved? She shook her head. No.

  “Don’t shake that pretty blonde hair at me, Missy. You may not want to believe it but it could be.” Waldo cleared his throat. “But that’s neither here nor there. You’ve been compromised and from the sounds of it, quite thoroughly.” He took another bite, finished it and spoke again. “What else did you find?”

  “More like what I didn’t find.”

  “Explain.”

  “My father’s Purple Heart is missing.”

  Waldo reached out and touched her hand, warm and comforting. “Take it from an old fighter dog, it’s just a piece of metal with a pretty colored ribbon. Your father lives in here.” His thick fingers touched his shirt near his heart.

  She knew he was right, but it was the sentimental value. A remembrance of her father. Charley nodded.

  “Was anything left in its place?”

  Startled, she looked up into Waldo’s brown-eyed gaze. “What?”

  “Sometimes, they leave something in exchange for what they’ve taken.”

  “Like what?”

  Waldo shrugged. “Finish. We’ll go check it out.”

  “I can’t—you can’t—”

  “Do not argue with me, little girl. I can and will. Remember, I’ve flown reconnaissance planes, I know how these people think.”

  Soaked in Waldo’s comforting presence, Charley shut her eyes and willed her heart to settle from a jackhammer to a slow pounding. When she lifted her lids, Waldo smiled at her, the light shining off his nearly bald head and she could have sworn she saw a halo hovering.