>CIA HEADQUARTERS
>LANGLEY, VA
>04NOV2019
>1100...///
Bajbala sat against a low concrete wall clasping a phone in one hand with earbuds draped down her wool coat bundled chest. In the other was a cooling cup of watered-down hot cocoa, more to defend her hands from biting gusts that sweeped into the courtyard from Langley’s overcast skies. The surrounding trees were stripped bare. Still and gray during this shadowless time of day.
The slim briefcase to her side contained stapled messes of collaborative work. Weeks worth of sifted actionable intelligence delegated to her section. Getting it all digital and pitching the work was some “Mike’s” job. The same Mike that expanded her playlist currently feeding warm tunes to her chill-nipped ears. Kiss of the wind, one of his tracks started. It was hard, then, she recoiled with the eruption of sweltering volume. Bajbala hastily fumbled with any available fingers on the touch screen to cut the noise, spilling the cocoa over her hand.
She groaned, pondering how much of a first-world girl she’s become despite having spent most of her working life abroad.
A long wool black pea coat and a matching beanie were the order of the day. Dark wayfarers watched from a bench further down the jogging path. Feds, contractors, spooks of all kinds were probably sprinkled all over this park either making the most of some downtime or tailing someone who was. It wasn’t DC, but it was close enough to it that Donnelley always made sure to look over his shoulder. There were still Russians, and traitors. He put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, a somewhat difficult task with gloves, but he made it work.
His steps brought him over to the dusky-skinned woman some ways away until they were shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the same scene of barren trees reaching up to the sky as if they were begging it for sun. And like everyone else’s prayers, they went unanswered.
“I feel like I should apologize.” Donnelley said, frowning and taking a drag off his cigarette, waiting for Bajbala to answer, if she wanted. Just like most times at home, he masked his accent behind that implacable Newscaster American. “No briefing, just volun-told onto this assignment.”
Donnelley looked at what Bajbala was fussing over and produced a handkerchief from a pocket of his coat, “Here.”
His words, abrupt but cool-ly spoken, pulled Bajbalas gaze up and around like a guilty pup, caught in her moment of embarrassment. It was the first time she's seen him at the home station. There was little to no correspondence from the team in Alaska but she knew it was real. She was already slotted an auxiliary assignment several months in advance, details barred. She popped an earbud out and looked at him clueless.
She offered a quiet smile then took his offering to wipe down her fingers. It seemed like he was the kind of guy who carried everything on him, ready for anything, always, even a spill. Somewhere between charmingly useful and annoying. “No... It’s nothing. I’ve been told what to do every day of my life. At least the Agency gives good treats.”
Bajbala looked between the experienced creases that formed on his face as he smoked and the spotted mess on her hands she wiped. “I don’t see you walking around, you are a busy man?”
“As busy as you,” Donnelley smirked at Bajbala, not oblivious to the suitcase next to her feet, “Waiting for someone? I’m not interrupting some secret, clandestine hand-off, am I?”
He whispered the last words, having at least a modicum of manners and a facetious tone, seeing as he may very well be actually stomping through a carefully planned brush pass or dead drop. Some highly classified information that would show up as a headline on some BBC segment, a South American or African nation’s leader suddenly being deposed or dying. “I’m not, am I?” He suddenly urged, a sheepish look on his face.
She chuckled, hiding a measure of stupor. A funny guy, funnier than her. “No hand off. But you sir, you are right on time right where you need to be.” She patted the concrete between them and finished cleaning her hands. “All that’s left is…” Bajbala daintily offered the kerchief back to him, smiling.
“The cue.”
Donnelley returned the smile, taking the kerchief back and folding it. He’d brought it out of his coat folded square, now he’d put it back folded in a triangle, “Eight years.” He said, letting it sit on the open air as he took another drag, “You’d think that’d be enough time to get used to all this cloak and dagger.”
He blew out the smoke, shaking his head, “Never really do.”
This world they both knew was ever-changing. The only difference may be that Bajbala was shaped by it in her childhood, grown into a woman by the lies of spooks and insurgents; the reason they staked her out to participate in this secret world.
“How could you when everyday is not like the last.” The scent of smoke and the thick of his voice brought her back to the resurrection scenario, still on the edge of her belief. “ You know what I’ll never get used to?” She eyed the briefcase for a moment before knocking it with her foot. “I’m pretty good with this stuff but it’s not much fun.”
“Yeah?” Donnelley quirked a brow Baj’s way, then went back to scanning the passersby idly, not expecting a pistol being whipped out this close to headquarters… but old habits, “Just stick with me, there’ll be enough fun to go around.”
"I am stuck with you." She smirked "But, hey, I have to go. Any longer and someone will really be thinking I'm dropping leads on this stuff." She slid off the concrete and snatched up her briefcase, patting down the wrinkles in her coat.
She turned back to him and his cigarette, a string of smoke pulled with the wind. "Can we meet later? I actually have something to ask you."
Donnelley shrugged, frowning slightly just so while tilting his head, “Don’t see why not. I can find something to do around here.” He took another drag, “You’ve got my number. Burners, P2P encryption, you know the deal.”
She pulled a pen and a crumpled receipt from her pocket, nodding as she scribbled something down against her palm.
TYSON MALL BARNESNOBLE 6PM, in rough hand writing with flecked characters.
“Let’s start with this.” Bajbala folded the paper and handed it to him with a half smile then hurriedly marched off.
Donnelley watched her go for a few moments, looking down at the scribbled note after. He nodded, stuffing the note into his pocket and going the other direction in search of something to do that wasn’t real work.
>1801...///
The sun had just set in DC and car lights occasionally flashed across the broad windows of the bookstore. Bajbala watched another patron enter through the sliding doors, handing the shoulders of a child as he toddled past the curios on display. She sunk back into her perch that was tucked in the back of a lonely aisle. A seating area where she dragged over a bean-chair from the children's corner. It was just within eyeshot of the door through the wrought-iron railing of the second floor.
She wondered how punctual her new team lead would be, how he was likely bred for this sort of life. Despite his exterior pleasantry, like Ghost and Poker, a mind machined to instinctually make choices useful to this shadowy organization of whose lap she fell upon. A human mind broken into something else.
Bajbala thumbed another page in the book in her own lap, not quite comprehending the full context as her thoughts meandered.
Down below on the first floor, the front door opened to a man stepping through with cautious eyes. Although he smiled to a random passerby when his child skidded to a halt before bumping into his legs, no doubt staring at the big, scarred man. The father ushered his child away, mouthing, “Sorry.”
Donnelley shrugged his forgiveness and went back to scanning the patrons. Once he caught sight of Bajbala lounging up at the second floor like a cat he made his way upstairs, taking a seat next to her. He watched her for a moment as she scanned the pages, “Apologies,” Donnelley gave a small smile, “Fashionably late.”
Bajbala returned the expression, unbothered. "Thank you for coming.” She pulled a leg up beneath her and leaned towards him. “I have this you might like.”
She slapped the wide book, Recipes of Our Ancestors, closed and placed it up on the end table next to Donnelley, inching it towards him once more with the tips of her fingers like it were a present. From the corner between its contents protruded a bundle of papers. Piecemeal bits of dossiers and reports, some of the constituents dead, including a CIA asset KIA deep within the FATA more than decade ago. Another, former GRU, in touch with Bazir, affiliation and whereabouts unknown. Then holes; operations struggling to avoid influence by tribal conflicts and evidence that Bazir himself had allegiance to an unknown agency, never confirmed.
She studied his face and hands waiting to see if it rekindled any memories.
What began as an entertained smirk and a glance at her passing over the book had slowly transitioned to one of trouble, a storm brewing in his blue eyes, ripples of memory returning. Of a long ruck, the Afghan commandos and their interpreters refusing to venture into that part of the mountains, the wailing… the wailing, most of all. He swallowed, slowly closing the book and placing it back on the table between them. Suddenly, Bajbala didn’t hold the same friendliness and calm nature he’d pinned on her at first.
It wasn’t anger in his eyes, at least not for her. The look of a man who’d escaped something only for it to be shoved in his face again. He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking Bajbala up and down, “Where’d you get these?”
The unease rang the way she hoped. Bajbala shook her head and in similar disbelief at its surfacing. “Hiding in plain sight. They don’t clean out at Special Projects like the rest of the agency, they’re on loan! Sort of…” she shifted in the seat and shrugged, “in any conventional sense none of this is relevant to anyone there except us.” She estimated of her new organization.
“You see,” she started, “I hear insider, and I,” touching one hand to her chest, “ as an insider see.” She pulled over the book and flipped it open, well clear of eyes and cameras in the dimly lit corner of the store. Her day’s behind the veil of the Taliban provided her many insights, afforded only by the luck of her involvement with the CIA.
“Here.” She traced her fingers along Bazir’s details, footnotes. “His deals with the Mullah; in Khyber and Orakzai,” She listed some villages in thick Afghan. “It’s very directed. Sure there was strategic value to what he provided - to draw coalition attention from here.” She pulled a page free. An MGRS map scan with strategic symbology and highlights on all but a few inconspicuous ridges and draws, likely ones Donnelley had seen. She planted a finger on one unaccounted zone inked with her hand-writing the grid coordinates of the airstrike. She watched his eyes digest what she showed him.
“It must have been easy.” She rolled a gaze at the image and bit her lip. “Give them the objective they want to keep them from the one they don’t know. I say this because I saw al-Khalwadi with... them, he didn’t look their enemy.”
Donnelley quirked a brow, an excitement in his pulse, though not one like a child at the sight of his presents under the tree. More like one running from the neighborhood dogs. He spoke with a hushed intensity, “Bazir? You saw him? Before he was…” Donnelley looked away for a moment and shook his head, “How long were you tracking him? Who put you on the case…”
He snorted humorlessly, “And you said you had a question for me.”
Bajbala was taken aback by the sudden flood of questions. “Yeah… Before he was - I. Yeah. I didn’t see what happened exactly.” She reached back in her mind trying to summon the experience, the feelings. She remembered the distant sound of explosions, and the calling noises. She broke off the target when it was handed over to Donnelley’s ODA. Bajbala looked out towards the lights beaming by the storefront as if it would trigger something, then back to Donnelley, smirking.
“It was different then, I just did as I was told. I worked for another man affiliated with CIA somehow. But it must have been three- four months?” The serious tones of their conversation clouded her resolve to ask about the noises back then, her intent of the exchange. “Honestly, I thought you knew.”
“I guess I didn’t need to.” Donnelley shrugged, chuckling softly and looking at the book between them, “They kept a lot from us. The only thing we were briefed on was who we were looking for and where he’d be.”
He shook his head ever so slightly, “When we told the Commandos and the interpreters we were heading that way,” he frowned, “They refused. Said they would rather desert, go back to their villages and their homes in the city.”
“I still don’t even know where we even were exactly… besides it being Pakistan, illegally.” Donnelley said.
“About as much as I knew. But it's right there in the file, some of it anyway.” Bajbala echoed his discontent. “I don’t remember much, but I think I understand why they wouldn’t go. And others.” She recalled fighters disbanding on the cultist’s trek at some point, where she and Pazir fell from their shoulders to their shadows.
A lurching sensation crawled through her body trying to suppress an immature desire to blurt about still illogical experiences.
“There are no ladies in the outskirts, the only reason I made it so far.” She crushed her vulnerability, hopeful that it would go away and haunt her another day.
“So,” Donnelley looked at her, eyes fixed on hers and searching. Searching for any sign of memory, trying to find a window into whatever memories were coming to her, “You said you had a question?”
He looked away and nodded at the book, “Or did I already answer it? That I was there?”
She met eyes with him, stuck and uncomfortable for a moment. "Yeah, um, nothing else really. Just, what did you find there? With Bazir. What happened?" Prying, distantly.
Donnelley drew in a breath, folding his hands in his lap and staring at the book. Even just seeing the maps made it feel as if the place was assaulting his senses, an otherworldly dread, and the echoes of blood-drunk monsters wearing people’s skin. “He’s dead.” Donnelley shrugged, “But, you already know that. He was… sacrificed, like an animal to… Something.”
He shook his head and looked away, scanning the other patrons in hopes none of them were eavesdropping. None, he turned back, “Was he important to you in some way, or…?”
The mission changed Bajbala and she felt it was the same for him by the way he spoke. A side of the coin she was better off without seeing then.
Bajbala chuckled shortly with a ponderous expression. "No soul left in that damned place is important to me.” The spite left her tongue like a serpent crawling in the open. She shot him an impish glance. “Unless, you want them to be, Qurbaana.” She postured up in the bean-chair, holding her crossed shin with both hands. Like Pazir when she was a girl, Donnelley was her new op-daddy. A joke, but a few months of work and she aims to please like a ball-driven dog with commands, drooling for a purpose.
“Hey, want to walk around the mall?” Some anticipation in her voice for a simple place she seldom visits.
Donnelley searched his mind for the word in his library of Pashto, his face the same stoney mask of remembrance until he finally found the word he’d heard. He looked to Bajbala at her choice of word for their dynamic, a jolt from frown to a fatherly smirk. Tilly might find her funny, he did. At Bajbala’s idea of a walk around the mall, he nodded and then stood, “Don’t forget your book.”
Still, he eyed the other patrons wearily, though most were idly scanning books and looking like they were too lost in their own lives to ever care what Donnelley and Bajbala could possibly be talking about. If only Donnelley could go back to that place of ignorance, warm and dark like a womb.
“Of course!” She said gleefully, swiping it into an opaque plastic bag she produced from beside her.
>…///
As they walked through the mall access a rush of crowd noise surrounded them. Hundreds were out to spend their holiday gift cards that Saturday evening. Bajbala peered through the many windows and their most enticing offers as she felt Donnelley was coolly cautious enough.
She scoffed at some stylistic oversized tie dye shirt. Coming from a world of function, many unique styles and cultures were beyond her and the guilt she felt for judging. Then she found herself wanting for something like a new handbag— the slim jade one hanging off a bust in a little designer shop on its last legs. Considered was how cleanly her carry piece would fit in it’s chic fold.
“Everything has been... ‘sit tight’ and ‘you’ll see’ since Alaska.” She emphasized the remarks. “I like suspense but you guys keep secrets like it's cool.” There was frustration in her nuanced body language as she watched ahead. “How do I prepare for this?”
Donnelley was busy eyeing some of the items in the store, looking for something Laine would like that he could surprise her with. Tilly also, but she didn’t seem the type to leave the house in anything other than a hoodie and some jeans. Too much like her father, though she barely really knew who he was. There were a few knit beanies Tilly might like, and a black handbag for Laine. Now that he’d been busy extorting people in West Virginia, money wasn’t as much of an object as it used to be.
“Uh,” Donnelley said, still cringing at the price tag of a handbag despite his recent off the books earnings, “Uh, yeah.”
He chuckled sheepishly, “I’ll admit I was there to shepherd the others during their first time. I didn’t tell them much then either,” He looked to Bajbala as he walked back to her side to see what had gotten her scoffing earlier, “Given our current locale, I’m not sure how much I should really tell you.”
“Question is, I guess,” He looked at Bajbala sidelong, “How much do you need to know right now.”
She knew the game and got the expected answer. “I hate that. I’m a big girl, aren’t I.” she conceded and pulled a small sleeve of gum from her pocket, slipping a turquoise stick in her mouth. She extended a piece to Donnelley.
Trusted not to sleep around but made to beg for any information, she figured that was his job for the sake of the team.
Donnelley waved the gum off politely, “We could always find a quiet corner and I could explain everything to you at once.” He shrugged, “You’d be drinking through a firehose and leave with just more questions.”
Donnelley looked the crowd over and his eyes transfixed on one spot in particular. Across the way, a man in his fifties stood from sitting on a bench and closed his book, walking in their general direction as if he’d remembered he had business elsewhere. Perhaps he did. Donnelley looked back to Bajbala as the man passed them with his eyes firmly forward before disappearing into the crowd, “Just give me an easy question.” He smirked, “Like, maybe… hey, Donnelley, when do me and all my new friends get to play together?”
Bajbala laughed, as if he nailed exactly what and how she was thinking. "Yeah, when? Let me guess, I'll know when I need to."
The relative safety of being off-duty in a US city left her complacent as to why Donnelley was cautious. If it wasn't her document reveal she was unaware, settled that she doesn't need to know 'right now'. The man he eyed strolled by without a look from Bajbala as she recalled the names and faces from the encounter in Anchorage. Those she liked, the frightening few, and that moody one, "Arkansas".
“You never know,” Donnelley said, looking back at the thin herd of shoppers, a river flowing in opposite directions, “Could be sooner than you think. I’ve never gotten to read your dossier, you know that?”
He asked, and then nodded towards the crowd, “How about a show of what you guys do over in Special Projects? Find me someone, before I do.”
The motley teams in her branch largely used to procure deniable arms, transportation or support personnel for guys like Donnelley, it was also a think-tank and clandestine strategy petri dish. Where unsustainable projects like RED BULB are exploited.
Bajbala looked up at him quizzically. It seemed only Foster was in the real loop with the arrangement, now they were playing games with strangers.
She followed his eyes out to the passing shoppers. "Sure, this is a challenge… or a job?"
“Consider it both.” Donnelley smirked.
"I'll play. Who do you want?" She asked simply, her mind gearing up to work.
Donnelley reached back in his mind for the man he saw just a minute ago, trying to find a reason why he’d be here, and now of all times. West Virginia was wrapped as tightly as he and Queen could make it, but one could never be too sure.
“Male, late fifties,” Donnelley began, “Beard and hair gray. Heavy build. He had a thick pea coat when I saw him, but he might’ve ditched it.”
“He knows we’re here.” Donnelley admitted, “But we’ve got him two to one.”
Bajbala was enlightened. To be prepared 24/7/365, she thought she left that life behind and it started months ago. She was behind.
"Good, I wanted to stop in this shop. Is he aware you saw him? " she scanned the crowd ahead, then held out the bookstore bag in Donnelley's path as she intended to turn them to the shop. She glanced across the crowds before her eyes lit up at the accessory boutique.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, let’s hope he didn’t.” Donnelley said, “It’ll make it easy for us.”
Donnelley accepted the rerouting to the shop, stepping inside with Bajbala on his heels, “How would you approach this?”
She was silent for a moment while looking over a wrack. With little contemplation she lifted up a simple beige scarf and adorned it around her neck, pleased. “Drag him, split and press from both sides until we find him.” She said as if it was one of few options she’d consider in this circumstance.
“From there, how close do you want to get?”
Donnelley took a moment himself to consider a course of action. There wasn’t any reason to simply set up countersurveillance if they weren’t going to confront their pursuer. After all, if Donnelley was willing to let himself lose this game they could simply cut and run, “Assuming he’s not giving up and repositioning himself at another vantage point,” Donnelley sucked his teeth, “I want to get close enough we’re squeezing the breath out of him.”
“Evade and confront.” Donnelley echoed the words he’d heard at The Farm and The Point years ago.
Bajbala felt a pang of excitement. Her new crew did Administrative leave right. "Makes sense. Apparently Alaska was quiet business, so this must be laying low for you guys.” She spoke nonchalantly, recalling Foster’s directive for the teams.
“Ok, I’m going to get this, then point us in the right direction? We’ll choke your old man.” She reassured him while caressing the budget scarf and pulled out her wallet. She played a possible route in her head; the less crowded department store, sitting at the benches, being staggered and tracking him near enough to a bathroom or maintenance hall. Once she grabbed the watcher’s attention Donnelley could snatch him from the far side, or stare him down an arms reach away.
“Sounds… adequate.” Donnelley nodded, turning for the store entrance back into the mall to see the passing couples and other shoppers, walkers, and people watchers… and especially one in particular, “We ready?”
Bajbala finished her exchange with the cashier. A quick flip of cash, quarters and receipt then she bagged the scarf in with her books.
"Yeah. We're ready." She looked at Donnelley briefly while following him out. “I’ll stay behind some. Give me a short ring if you spot buddy and hold the phone in his direction. Get somewhere quiet. If you’re lucky I’ll ring you back and you better come out to mingle!” She pursed her lips at him as she cut from his side and walked off.
Bajbala cut across the concourse and took a short escalator ride up to the food court, peering around at the nearby stores and many faces. None quite matching the description, oblivious to the two operatives. She approached a childishly themed corner shop overlooking Donnelley, plotting her moves to follow him. Using mostly hand gestures, she ordered two extra large tropical slushies from the enthusiastic teenage worker.
For Donnelley’s part, he assumed the role of just another window shopper, giving a pursed smile to a passing gentleman on his own way to somewhere else. His eyes remained fixated on the crowds, flitting here and there and going over the faces he passed. He knew Bajbala was above him, but he made an effort to not give her away with glances upwards. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Donnelley hit a vestibule choked with traffic when his eyes gravitated towards one man in that tightly packed knot of people, having just as much of a hard time getting through. By the time they’d broken from the human tide, Donnelley had nearly lost him in a gaggle of passing college students, laughing at some unheard joke.
He watched him turn and settle into their wake, walking back into the vestibule. Had he been spotted? Already compromised? If he was, there was no point in pretending he wasn’t following him. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Baj, the call immediately connected to his Bluetooth earpiece, “Got him.” He said, the fake smile audible in his voice, acting like he was calling a family member or somesuch. He snapped a quick photo, not quite getting a look at his face, but the clothes would hopefully be enough, “I got a photo too, he’s following those smiling students, I’m a good distance behind.”
The phone buzzed in Bajbala’s hand. She opened a photo of random shoppers all crossing over the focal point. An older man by the gray in his hair, distinctly the only one fitting Donnelley’s description. They were still in her line of sight, and as he said, behind a row of younger people emerging at the end of the concourse was their man.
“Perfect.” She responded, delighted. “On it.”
For a few moments she watched the man from her table, an obscure angle through the walkway glass above as people walked between them. The man glanced around himself with natural curiosity but kept a steady pace. She observed until she identified an expression mixed with his act, a brief tell to where he was headed. Bajbala left her two drinks and strolled off on a path to intercept him.
Donnelley watched Bajbala descend the downward escalator at the leisurely pace it had locked her to. Still, he was behind the man himself and he had yet to notice Donnelley. They were heading straight to the mall’s front doors, and soon he’d have the whole breadth of the outside streets to slip any tails he had. “We let him get outside, we’re losing him again.” He said, “If he gets to those doors before you, I’m going to have to do this sloppy.”
Bajbala curbed a family with a stroller offering an apologetic smile. She caught him in the side of her eye across the concourse with the same tell for the exit ahead. At Donnelley’s remark she stepped it out and broke visual, eventually gaining a lead on the man and merging to his side of the walkway. Bundles of energetic crowds aided in disguising her movements. She walked at what she guessed was his pace, relying on Donnelley to be her eyes.
“How’s he look, behind me?.” She drew nearer to the Mall exit and measured her pace back, allowing the target to walk himself closer.
“He’s gaining, he’ll be within reach in five, four, three,” Donnelley’s eyes narrowed more by the second watching the man get closer and closer to Bajbala. Hopefully he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. At the very last moment, he snapped, “He’s on you.”
Bajbala could hear the faint shuffle of steps to her rear as the crowd had dissipated near the exit. At Donnelley’s call she stuttered and turned back abruptly into the man's path. There was a brief awkward moment where he tried to pass but then she locked eyes with him, he was going nowhere.
As soon as Bajbala turned, the man reached into his coat to pull something. As Bajbala worked to restrain him with her new scarf, Donnelley bumped into his back, jabbing the blade of his Benchmade punch dagger tickling the small of his back, just at the base of his spine. He grunted, but the resisting stopped there.
“Oh, excuse me!” Donnelley laughed in show to any nosy onlookers. Leaning forward into the man’s ear, Donnelley growled through gritted teeth, “Walk.”
Without a word, the man did as he was told. Donnelley turned him around and headed back into the mall, the disinterested crowds too busy living their own boring lives to notice.
Bajbala wrenched a knot tightly around the mans neck, almost leading him like a long lost friend. She clung onto it from the other side and huddled close to conceal the blade.
“On the right up ahead.” A corridor they had passed earlier.
Donnelley angled them towards it, his eyes scanning the crowds with the expression of a man who was just out for a stroll in the mall. Once they were inside the corridor and away from the cameras, Donnelley pushed the man stumbling through the bathroom doors. Thankfully, they were alone, no one pissing or shitting to ruin their party. Donnelley sheathed his push dagger in its place on his belt, next to the Steyr handgun.
The older man didn’t put up much resistance, probably knowing they could murder him in this bathroom and make it look like an accident. “I know you,” The older man nodded at Donnelley, then pointed at Bajbala, “You’re the mystery.”
“Taken, sorry.” Bajbala quipped. Them being a mystery to each other didn’t seem such a bad thing to her.
She took advantage of the daring flash of Donnelley’s sidearm to pat the man down. Eyeing him cautiously she moved in and reached past his coat pulling free a subcompact, which she pocketed before removing his wallet, keys, phone, and a folding blade. She undid her scarf, stepped back, gave Donnelley a nod, then proceeded to remove the phone's battery and clear the pistol.
“Really? You two?” The man scoffed.
Donnelley snorted, “She’s got better taste.”
“I’m going to get that gun back, right?” The old man asked, everything about him much too nonchalant about this interaction than most. He placed his hands on his hips and looked between the two of them, “But, seriously. Who is she?”
Bajbala passed a look over both of them then she cast her gaze towards Donnelley like she had just been caught in a charade. “What is this?” She asked. Bajbala was beginning to believe suspicion of even her team would be the new norm. As long as it didn’t get her killed.
“My name’s Sam.”
“Sam Dee.” Donnelley finished, looking the man up and down and chuckling, “He was one of my instructors at The Point. Helped me shave some off my draw time almost a decade back. Now look at him, stalking two friends out for a stroll at the mall.”
“Fuck you.” Sam spat, a tiny bit of that feigned offense probably hitting close to home. Such are men past their prime. “I take it you’ve got a new team?”
“I take it you’ve got a new number?” Donnelley shot back, “I called you about a favor a week ago, you didn’t pick up.”
“I don’t trust that much anymore. There’s a mole, you know?” Sam quirked a brow, then pointed to Bajbala, “Could even be her.”
Bajbala connected her experience with the situation. “Could be.” She filled in nonchalantly. “So, who’s onto us— or me?” She handed back Sam’s wallet and keys but kept the rest until they would leave. She took a brief peak into the corridor, vacant, keeping her attention with them.
“Funny.” Sam said, busy with pocketing his returned belongings in their rightful places, “What’s the favor?”
“I’ve recently come into some… you know, incriminating documents for a certain company we both know.” Donnelley sucked his teeth and shrugged, “I need you to hold onto these documents.”
“How do you know I’m not the mole?”
“Because, you might hate your job, but you don’t hate the goal. Protecting America, protecting the world.”
“Okay,” Sam nodded along, considering his options, “What’s the catch?”
“If any of us are caught with any of this shit, we’re being put to death for treason.” Donnelley raised his brows, “Still in?”
“You’re seriously following this guy?” Sam asked Bajbala.
“I’m on salary. You trained him.” She returned, smug, and leaned against the faux marble sink counter. She played the backseat, keeping her cards only where they needed to be, at Donnelley’s discretion.
Sam simply shook his head at Bajbala’s impishness. He folded his arms and leaned his shoulder on the wall, “So, what is it?”
“I know who the mole is.”
“What?” Sam jumped to attention, taking a step closer to Donnelley, “How?”
“I can’t tell you. The less you know about these documents, the better.” Donnelley shrugged, “You know how it is. I just need you to hold these until I find a way to use them. I need you to try to get in the Director’s ear, tell him you have documents that can get us the mole and plug that leak.”
Donnelley frowned, “And try to get me a meeting with him.”
“That’s fucking impossible. He doesn’t crawl out of his cave for just anyone.”
“And I’m not just anyone. We’re not. We’re the ones who can fix this shit.” Donnelley looked at Bajbala, leaning on the counter, “I don’t have much time, can you fucking do this for me, Sam?”
Sam took his time, scratched at his beard and sighed, “I need something to sweeten the deal.”
“What’s that?”
“You come when I call.”
Donnelley narrowed his eyes, drew his lips thin. He took his own moment now, “Fine.”
Donnelley said, “It’s not like we have shit to do anyway.”
“Trust me, you’ll have some.” Sam said.
“You’re going to take over as our Case Officer?”
“Just listen for my fucking call. Am I free to go now?”
“You still need the documents-“
“Fine.” Sam growled, “Where?”
“We’ll set up a dead drop.” Donnelley shrugged, “Keep our contact to a minimum. I know that’s how you like these things. And we’ll wait for your call.”
“You’d better.” Sam said, brushing past Donnelley to get to Bajbala. He held his hand out, “The rest of my shit, please.”
She reached into her pockets and handed him his weapons. Last producing the magazine, she seated the unchambered round and with an ounce of reluctance handed it to him.
"Thanks for your time." She said simply.
Sam gave her a good look over, then eyed up Donnelley. Knowing Sam, he was probably going over how much he wanted to beat them over the head. He gave a small frown and turned for the door, disappearing behind it. Donnelley sighed audibly in the empty restroom, “I think we did well.” Donnelley nodded, “What about you?”
“For a saturday night in DC, yeah! Is this how you greet all your friends?” Bajbala said with a smirk. She waved out the wrinkles in the scarf and sorted it loosely around her neck.
“Only the special ones.” Donnelley gave his own smirk. He was starting to like having Bajbala here, no one else on UMBRA would’ve been able to get someone as clean as he and Bajbala just did. THUNDER, maybe, but no one could do it quite just like he wanted, “We should take a drive, get some coffee, see the sights. Hand off that bag full of treason and espionage charges to Sam.”
He nodded, they were getting closer to the end of this, but the seas were still choppy as all hell. There was an end. Donnelley just had to keep telling himself it wouldn’t be the one where they all ended up tripping and shooting themselves twice in the chest and once in the head. He rubbed his stomach, looking at Bajbala, “Kinda hungry.”
“Your treat?” She flashed her eyebrows and guided herself out of the restroom as another man walked in, unbothered by the trespassing female.
>…///
Donnelley and Bajbala sat in the small coffee shop-slash-wine bar. Donnelley had always been partial to reds, but beyond that, the art and sophistication of wine simply just rolled off of him as water to a duck’s feathers. It wasn’t long ago, looking back, that Holly had put in him a love for wine with the spaghetti and other pasta dishes they’d make to compromise with Tilly’s young and simple tastebuds. It was what he thought back to after sipping the dry Merlot he’d ordered. He took his eyes off the passing people on the street and looked at Bajbala, “So,” he began, “I can see why you’re with us. The mall situation was handled cleanly.”
He nodded, running a hand down his beard, trimmed back and subdued since last year in West Virginia, “I can tell from your accent that America is not your first home, and English not your first language.” He smiled, hoping he wasn’t offending her with his questions, and then spoke in fairly good Pashto, “But, I can also tell you’ve been speaking it as long I’ve been speaking Pashto.”
Bajbala watched a sugar cube dissolve around the stirring stick in her tea, her hair fastened back with a large clip. She gave Donnelley an affirming glance. "You sound good!" She exclaimed, disregarding any minute oddities in pronunciation. Herself, hardly distinguishing her speech from other native English speakers after extensive use.
Then in her native tongue, "You also sound like every first date I've had since I've been here." She nodded with a smirk and tilted her steaming mug towards him. "Tell me how you started doing… " she uttered an Arabic expression for cleaning the mess god left for them. The hunting. The war. Of all the secretive soldiers of the coalition, the operators she laid tracks for, she never knew them personally.
Donnelley snorted and shook his head at Bajbala’s comment on first dates. His eyes left hers again when she asked the inevitable, still wearing his own smirk. Now she was starting to sound like every first date too, though somehow, her line of questioning didn’t seem so patronizing given the worlds they both shared. He nodded, “If I told you what I tell everyone else, you’d know I was lying. The whole, ‘I did it all for my country.’” His smirk had lost some of its humor, “I just wanted to get away from my shitty home. Dad’s… abuse. Mom’s quiet complicity. So I joined the Army soon as I could.”
He looked at Bajbala, the side of his face where his scar could be faintly seen through his otherwise thick red beard facing her, “Now look at me.” He smiled, “I practically don’t exist and I’ve got a smartass calling me her Quurbana.”
“Good answer?” He asked.
Bajabala chuckled and took a sip. "Good." She clasped the mug and played her fingers once around the edges. "Familiar story." She said ponderously. "I figure you're lying about half the time anyway. Still the most honest I've worked with." Sarcasm parting from her lips softly, vanishing in the warm roasted calm of the shop.
"And, it's qurbaana. Baana, with an alif." She mused.
"I've always worked this way, you know how it is. Being a woman over there." She fidgeted with the mixer, entertained by her thoughts. Working. "We're not fighters, we just obey. If we are not to give them sons, well," She shrugged, "we live to die for who we belong. " she lifted her mug to Donnelley again, lightly, "Qurbaana."
“Qurbaana.” Donnelley returned the toast, redeeming his pronunciation before sipping at his wine, “Do you ever miss it? I mean, the parts worth missing. Sometimes I’d watch the sunrises and sunsets turn the valley walls pink or orange. It was my first time being outside of the country, being honest.”
“If it weren’t for the people shooting at me, I might’ve gone back. The food, too.” He chuckled, “Street food in Kabul. I miss it.”
Bajbala reached back far in memory and tried to pull from pleasant ones. With an aloof smile she opened. "Yes! So much personality that comes with the food. I remember a friend that would bring me soooo much naan every week, we would use it to feed our goats." She still searched. "I think I miss the hills. There were these hills by a lake, the first water like this I've ever seen. They were covered in a soft green one spring, like another world. I wish I could have rolled down them." She paused and gave him a coy smile. "I still do."
"It's nice to hear what you can appreciate. For a while it was— there was fear. I think it stopped being home when I was a little girl. More a… " She delivered another Afghan expression. A poetic linking of fate and shackles. Everything she valued was lost in her country. "I might mistake you miss the shooting. " She held the humor as she held the tea to her lips.
Donnelley shrugged, giving a soft snort at her joke. She was only half right, there was always the specters of reality that came with chasing every fight that would have you. He’d seen his fair share of flag-draped pine boxes, and known the people inside a lot of them. He sighed, “Not as much as I used to, being honest.”
He maintained his smile, knowing Bajbala knew as well- or perhaps even better- that your feet don’t touch Afghanistan without finding the blood just under the surface. Centuries of it, “I don’t blame you for coming here. I can only assume the Company plucked you out of there for being such a good asset.”
“For what it’s worth,” Donnelley gave a soft smile, “Glad you were. You seem like a good person.”
“Awe.” Bajbala regurgitated the hand to chest gesture. “Sure, you bad boys like having your good girls.” far from her identity, on either end of an operation it was her job to seem like a good person. She felt a similar sentiment towards Donnelley, as a person and leader.
Donnelley snorted, “There it is.”
Several pedestrians in business attire stopped in front of the coffee bar and smoked in view. “Really though, I’m excited to work with you and your team,” Bajbala turned her head quizzically at Donnelley. “But, I hope you’re ready. You have that sealed lips until the last second policy, it’s not going to stop me from being all over you for answers.” She stated mellifluously. Like a cat staring at its owner before slapping something off a countertop. Information was power on the ground, doubly if working alone.
“Hard to leak anything if you don’t know anything, I guess.” He said, “They only point us at the problem and our only objective is fix it. Makes for a lot of fun.”
“I think my daughter would like you. You’re both smartasses.” He chuckled, gulping the last of his wine down and setting the glass back on the table, debating whether to have another or not.
Bajbala got it, but she had nerve. If there isn't somebody saying she isn't allowed to know, she'll try their ear off.
"Oh. You're needing a babysitter or something?" She asked, caught off guard.
“No, I’m sure her mother has that covered. And her mother’s husband.” Donnelley said, probably a little too bitterly to match the humor of the rest of the conversation. He recovered as quickly as he could, “No, what I’m needing is someone who can get me what you can get me. Like those presents in that suitcase you had. Whoever’s getting those birthday cards is going to be very happy.”
“Oh,” He said, nodding out the window they sat next to, “Look who’s right on time.”
Outside, Sam was crossing the street towards the coffee shop wine bar. He entered through the front, making his way towards the stand to order, then sat down at the other end of the dining area he and Bajbala were sitting and making good conversation in. When the barista at the counter called out the dry cappuccino to-go for William, Donnelley knew that Sam hadn’t been followed. Knowing Sam, he made doubly sure he wasn’t. The man was the type to not shy away from confronting his own tails and then splitting their heads open in an alleyway with a brick.
So, Donnelley trusted him on that. Sam grabbed his cappuccino, returned it to his table, then went to the men’s bathroom, where the files Donnelley had stolen and compiled were stuffed into ziploc bags and left in the tank of the middle stall’s toilet. Sam didn’t even look at them as he passed, files stuffed in his backpack as he took his dry cappuccino and left.
“Hopefully this all works out.” Donnelley thought out loud, his voice betraying his worry. Not just for himself, but for his team. His family. Holly, Tilly, and even Mark, if only because he’d raised Tilly better than a younger Donnelley ever could. Or wanted to.
"Hopefully. I hope that wasn't the basis on picking me." Bajbala began, following with the last of her tea. "It will work out because we’ll make it." She said, eager to work, green about the horrors she has yet to witness.
There was some hardness behind Donnelley's eyes.
"Have another. I'll drive." Bajbala offered, signalling the wait staff by pointing to his glass.
