He gave his hair a quick comb, then stepped into his loafers, grabbing his black windbreaker from a hanger. As he walked to the kitchen, he swallowed the last mouthful of beer, and dropped the bottle in the trash next to the stove. Looking up at Adler, he laughed. “You got enough stuffed in your mouth?” Adler’s cheeks were bulging with sandwich material. “You look like an overgrown chipmunk.”
Adler pushed the last food remnants in with a finger. “I was hungry… and in a hurry! You sure we’re stopping on the way?”
Grabbing his keys from the side table, Grant slung his windbreaker over his shoulder. “Get a couple of root beers from the fridge.” As he opened the door, Adler handed him a bottle. “Come on,” Grant said, “and wipe those crumbs from your shirt. No crumbs allowed in the Vette!”
Chapter 2
The H-shaped, 1.4 million square foot building housing CIA Headquarters was built from precast concrete. In 1959 President Eisenhower placed a time capsule and laid the cornerstone. Afterwards, the capsule and cornerstone were removed for safekeeping until the building was completed. In 1961 President Kennedy presided over the dedication.
As unremarkable as the outside of the building is, the lobby is just as simple, but full of impact. On the north wall is the Memorial Wall, with stars carved into it representing those who gave all for their country. All the stars are spaced six inches apart from each other, as are all the rows.
Beneath the stars is the “Book of Honor,” encased in stainless steel and topped by an inch-thick plate of glass. Inside the book are the stars, with the names of the CIA employees, arranged by year of death. There are stars without names, names that will never be divulged.
On the south wall is the Memorial Wall dedicated to the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), the precursor to the CIA, also with names and stars.
Etched into the main wall is a biblical verse which characterizes the intelligence mission in a free society: “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
After passing through security, Grant pulled his ‘74 black Corvette sport coupe into a “visitor” parking space. He and Adler got out with Adler looking at him over the car’s roof. “So, are you excited about being here?” he asked with a smirk.
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Funny man. Let’s go.”
Both doors slammed simultaneously. As Adler came around the back of the car, he glanced at the California license plate: JSTDOIT. We do! he laughed to himself.
They stood in the lobby in front of the Memorial Wall, reading names in the “Book of Honor,” when they heard, “Grant! Joe!” Tony Mullins waved, as he jogged toward them. He wore a dark gray suit, with a long-sleeve white shirt, and a diagonally-striped red and blue tie, a totally different look than when he was aboard theBronson. He was about 5’10”, the same height as Adler, and about three inches shorter than Grant.
The three men shook hands with firm, enthusiastic grips. Grant slapped Mullins’ shoulder. “Hey! What happened to the beard and long hair?”
“Had to leave the ‘mountain man’ image behind when I left the Bronson.” He laughed as he ran a hand over his face, showing signs of stubble from what had probably already been a long day. He turned to Adler. “How you doing, Joe?”
“I’m good, sir.”
“Joe, don’t you think it’s time you called me ‘Tony’?”
“I’ll try, sir… I mean, Tony.”
“Hey, before I forget. I never got a chance to congratulate both of you on the new ranks.” After the Bronson incident, Grant received the new rank of captain and Adler, lieutenant(j.g.).
“Thanks, Tony,” Grant smiled.
“Yeah, Tony,” Adler said.
“Come on,” Mullins said, as he started down the main hallway. “We may as well get this show on the road.”
Located off a side corridor on the main floor, the small conference room has three windows, all facing the corridor. White metal blinds cover each window. A rectangular table with eight barrel-style, brown Naugahyde-covered swivel chairs occupy a good portion of the space. Against the back wall is a narrow credenza with two phones, one black, one red, and a movie projector. The opposite wall has a rolled up projection screen secured to the ceiling.
Mullins opened the door, motioning for Grant and Adler to go ahead of him. “Have a seat, gentlemen.” He leaned out the door and called, “Cynthia, could you please bring us a pot of coffee? Thanks.” Closing the door, he removed his suit jacket, draped it over a chair, and finally took a seat opposite the two men.
Grant rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, with his fingers forming a teepee. He tapped his fingers together. “Okay, Tony. It’s not like we’re not glad to see you, but out with it. Tell us why we’re here.”
Mullins stared at Adler then shifted his eyes to Grant. “I know I probably don’t have to ask this question, Grant, but do you remember a day in March, 1975, Vietnam?”
Grant’s stomach tightened. He abruptly got up and stood behind the chair, then turned to face Mullins. “It made me and my whole team sick.” His spit the words out between clenched teeth. “We were that close,” he said, indicating less than half an inch with this fingers, “that damn close! And you’re damn right I remember.”
He jammed his hands into his side pockets, walking around the table near Mullins. Mullins had learned a lot about Grant and Adler during the brief time they were aboard the Bronson. Now, as he looked at Grant, he could see the frustration, the questions, the pain of not completing a mission everyone had such high hopes for. And knowing this man as he did, he undoubtedly had unwarranted guilt for not being able to make it happen.
There was a knock at the door, and Mullins said, “Come in.”
A slender women, in her late fifties, with short salt and pepper hair entered, carrying a stainless steel coffee pot. “Here you are, Tony.”
“Thanks, Cynthia,” he said taking the pot.
“There are cups in the credenza,” she pointed. “Will you need anything else?”
“No, Cynthia. Why don’t you go home?” She gave a brief smile, then closed the door quietly behind her.
Mullins put the coffee pot on the table, then walked around to the credenza, taking out three plain white ceramic mugs from a deep drawer.
Grant and Adler remained quiet, but now Grant’s brain started processing. He stood by his chair, with his hands gripping the backrest. “Come on, Tony. What the hell are we doing here? And what does it have to do with ’75?”
Mullins held up the coffee pot. Neither Grant nor Adler responded. He poured himself a cup, then went back around the table and sat down. He stared into the black brew, and without looking up, he said, “Grant, do me a favor. Sit.”
Grant swung the chair around, and sat down. He had feelings of frustration and anger. Strangely, an excitement, or maybe it was more like anticipation, started to build inside him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Leaning against the table, he slowly ground a fist into his opposite palm. “I’m sitting, and we’re waiting.”
Mullins put the warm mug on the table, keeping his eyes on it as he slid it back and forth between his hands. “A phone call came in on one of our special lines around noon today.” Raising his eyes, he looked at Grant and said, “The person said American servicemen from Vietnam, POWs, are still being held.”
Grant held up a hand. “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! You get this call about possible prisoners of war from Vietnam, and you’re ready to believe this… this person? Jesus Christ, Tony! A goddamn phone call?”