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God's House
God's House
God's House
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God's House

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With his hopeless mission to Nigeria falling apart, CIA agent Jack Donner disobeys orders to protect an American businessman. After his charge is killed, Jack brings his body home as he promised.

When he meets the widow, Anne Davis, at the funeral, she demands to know the circumstances of her husband’s death and who killed him. Leaving Anne to grieve, Jack goes to Langley to face charges. Worlds apart, they do their best to move on.

But sinister forces will not leave the two of them at peace. To survive, Jack and Anne must work together, solve his friend’s murder, and uncover secrets that powerful people want to keep buried.

Intense and realistic, with high concepts and sympathetic characters, God’s House is frighteningly possible.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateSep 12, 2011
ISBN9780997805284
God's House

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    God's House - John D. Trudel

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    Chapter 1 – Homecoming

    Seattle, Washington

    Jack Donner sighed, venting deep frustration. He waited for the other passengers to disembark before he stretched and rose to his feet, careful not to bump his head on the overhead bins. One or two passengers gave him odd looks as they filed past, but he pretended not to notice.

    He’d been traveling for four days, but it felt longer.

    The 29-hour flight across the Pacific had been interminable. He’d come halfway around the world, running for home, running from horror.

    He’d broken his own rules by stopping for an overnight in Japan because he desperately needed rest. His hands were shaking and his eyes felt like sandpaper. Unfortunately, the only lodging available near the airport was a business hotel with claustrophobic sleeping rooms. The space was like a shoebox and his futon was too small. He lay awake most of the night staring at the ceiling, arms folded on his chest, legs dangling, startled by each strange sound.

    Jack’s nerves were raw and his mind was churning. Each time he started to nod off his subconscious sent him danger signals and jerked him to full alertness. Sleep was impossible.

    He forced himself to stop thinking about the past weeks. Second guessing made things worse. That way lies madness. Last year, a friend stuck a gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. Jack didn’t want to end up that way.

    He finally gave up, shaved, showered, and put on his cleanest dirty clothes. He had warm rice and tepid tea back in the terminal. The meal was a lump in his stomach. Jack wasn’t fond of rice. Pouring soy sauce over it helped some. At least he managed to keep it down.

    He upgraded to business class and waited four more hours to board. When the plane was airborne he reclined the seat into a bed and finally dozed off.

    Sleep was fitful. He kept waking up disoriented, wondering where he was. His exhaustion seemed more than physical and the nightmares were the worst he’d had for a long time. The flight attendants woke him twice because he was moaning loudly, bothering the other passengers.

    Jack was glad he’d shipped the body separately. It was a reminder of failure. The mission was another exercise in futility, the third in two years. He was getting tired of that too. More than tired. Angry.

    When they finally touched down on U.S. soil he was thankful to be home. This mission had been rough. He had enough of stupid rules and dumb-assed political accommodations.

    Jack nodded at the cabin crew as he passed. Nice landing. It didn’t hurt to be polite. Hell, any landing you could walk away from was a good landing.

    The young pilot smiled appreciation.

    Jack strolled down the concourse, taking an escalator down to the luggage carousel. Baggage was slow, as always.

    It didn’t matter. This time there was no hurry.

    When his lone bag appeared, he shouldered it and headed for customs, fitting himself into the longest line. The one that said, U.S. citizens with nothing to declare.

    Sometime later, he finally reached the end and was directed to an inspection station. That line was shorter, but it didn’t seem to be moving. He sighed, removed his shoes and put them on his bag, and waited. More time passed….

    The attendant was a dishwater blond with a round face, limp hair, and a pierced nose embedded with a small, pyramid-shaped silver stud, but no earrings or other jewelry. The lapse was probably a testimonial to the metal detectors. Instead she had a vivid tattoo on her neck: A butterfly in iridescent purple, black and gold.

    Jack handed her his passport and declaration without comment. She scanned them, frowned, and tapped her computer terminal.

    She pointed at the table. Open your bag.

    Jack shrugged and complied. It contained nothing but clothes and his personal kit. No weapons, no hardware, not even a computer.

    Butterfly girl made a show of going through it slowly. Nothing to declare?

    No.

    You can put your shoes back on. Butterfly girl turned back to her computer, still frowning. Maybe she was having a bad day. You came in from Tokyo?

    It was on his baggage tag. Jack showed her his ticket, wondering if she was stupid or just following mindless TSA procedure. Narita.

    She took it and held up his passport. There’s no entry stamp.

    So stamp it. Problem solved. He’d now been standing in line for well over an hour.

    Not here, she said, shaking her head. At Narita. No entry stamp.

    Sure there is. A commercial business visa. Stamped by the Counsel-General. Good for 60 months. The Japanese were notoriously picky about such things.

    She thumbed through the passport, taking her time.

    Do you see it? he finally asked. There was nothing wrong with his papers. Why is this taking so long?

    That stamp is almost two years old. There should be a recent exit stamp.

    Stay calm. Look bored, tired, and non-threatening. The trainers spent a lot of time discussing checkpoints. Even in low-threat environments they could be a problem.

    Butterfly girl was frowning, flipping pages. The last exit stamp is from Heathrow. That one says ‘employment prohibited.’ The only exit stamp from Narita is the old one.

    Jack practiced looking puzzled. He shrugged and shook his head.

    Can you explain that?

    Not really. I went through their procedures without any problems.

    What were you doing in Japan?

    Sleeping.

    Butterfly girl gave him an odd look.

    I was only there for a few hours.

    What do you do for a living, Mr. Donner?

    I’m a consultant.

    Who do you work for?

    Donner and Associates. He handed her a business card, not mentioning that the business was just himself, a phone number that took messages, and an office service address. His associates had been two cats, but he’d finally given them away because he was gone so much.

    You live in Oregon?

    Dayton, Ohio. His passport said Ohio. So did his card.

    Your card says Dayton, but your ticket says Portland. What’s your business there?

    No business, Jack said. Just a stop over.

    You can put your clothes back in the bag.

    Right.

    When Jack looked up, he saw two burly men with sidearms. Is there a problem?

    Not unless you make one. You’ll need to come with us.

    Jack shifted slightly, spreading his hands, taking care to look relaxed. Do I get an explanation?

    The agent leaned closer and spoke softly. You’ll get handcuffs if you don’t shut the fuck up and come quietly.

    What’s the problem?

    We can MACE you. Bud likes that part.

    Jack looked at the second agent.

    The man had a glint in his eyes. Make my day, he said.

    You should maybe provide your rookies more training than watching old movies. Jack shook his head, looking at the first man. You got any ID?

    All I need, asshole. The man flipped open a Transportation Security Administration badge with his picture, holding it up for Jack to study. The second TSA agent backed away slightly, putting his right hand on his weapon.

    I don’t want any trouble, Jack said. May I pick up my bag?

    The first agent shook his head. We’ll take good care of it for you.

    I’m going to miss my flight.

    Neither man replied as they led him off down the concourse.

    Chapter 2 – Don’t embarrass the Bureau

    Seattle, Washington

    The room was stark: white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, a cheap conference table, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and a concrete floor. There was a mirror on one wall, but no window or electrical plugs.

    The door was steel, and it locked from the outside. Next to it was a round brass button, a doorbell. The agents had to buzz every time they wanted out.

    Jack looked across the table at the FBI agent, shook his head, and sighed. Do we have to go through all that again? I’ve already told you a dozen times, plus several more to the TSA. Why don’t you just watch the tapes and save us both time?

    Tell me again, Agent Powell said.

    Powell wasn’t going to make it as an interrogator, Jack thought. He had neither the attitude nor the timing. His questions were predictable and plodding.

    No. Jack shook his head. He was running out of time and needed to get to Portland, but didn’t want to let it show.

    I can put you in jail under the Patriot Act. We don’t have to charge you with anything.

    And I can sue the government, Jack said, matching the threat and turning slightly so the bruise would show. Let me call a lawyer.

    The TSA said you were resisting, Agent Powell said.

    That’s bullshit, and you know it. I was sitting in a room with two men politely answering questions when their goon lost his cool and decided to beat on me. I’m sure the media or a jury would love to watch those tapes.

    Agent Powell winced.

    What more can I tell you? You keep asking me about customs stamps, but I have no idea how the Japanese handle their paperwork or what stamps they use. You’ve seen my tickets, passport, and driver’s license. You’ve searched my luggage and checked my fingerprints. Jesus, do we have to make a federal case out of this?

    I’m just following the rules, Mr. Donner.

    That’s what the TSA asshole said right before he punched me out.

    I’m sorry. Agent Powell looked uncomfortable. The training given to TSA is limited. Their man made a mistake. They should have called us in sooner.

    Obviously. Jack stared into the observation mirror on the wall behind the agent. He knew incidents like this tended to embarrass the Bureau. Should I call a lawyer?

    That won’t be necessary. Agent Powell said glumly, shaking his head. He turned off the recorder and pushed his chair back.

    His attitude changed when a younger agent entered the room and handed him a piece of paper. You’re a lying sack of shit. You flow across borders like smoke. Until this trip, there’s no record of your passport having been used since Heathrow. A four-month gap and then you magically appear in Cape Town.

    Jack frowned. There must be some mistake.

    Right, and you made it, Powell said. Someone’s been doctoring your records. Very smoothly. Not many people have that ability, and most of those who do have the initials C.I.A. Are you a spy, Mr. Donner?

    No. Jack groaned inwardly as the door opened and a man he recognized burst in. But he is.

    The two FBI Agents looked startled, staring at the older man with silver hair, an expensive gray suit, and a power tie. He looked more like a successful stockbroker than a spy.

    Who the fuck are you? The young agent turned to face the man and stepped forward to confront him, putting a hand on his weapon.

    The silver-haired man looked at Powell and shook his head. He managed to simultaneously express incredulity and amusement, with a strong overtone of professional disapproval. Are you in charge of this idiot?

    Easy, Bob, Powell said. Stand down. He wouldn’t get in here without a security check.

    Maybe. The young agent took a step back, keeping his attention on the man. Let’s check him again.

    We’re in the middle of an interrogation here, Powell said.

    No, you’re done. The older man flashed his ID card.

    Powell glanced at it. CIA. Executive level.

    The man gave a frosty smile. Did you think I was his fairy godmother?

    Whoever you are, you’re way out of line. Agent Powell pinned the man with a look. "Agent Jones raises an excellent point. What are you doing here?"

    Taking over, son.

    Bullshit. You spooks have no legal authority here in the U.S.

    We do this time. Check with your Agent-in-Charge if you don’t believe me.

    Do it, Powell said. The young agent nodded and left the room. I need a closer look at that ID.

    If you wish. The older man nodded, took it out of its folder and passed it over.

    Averill Langston.

    Averill P. Langston, the third. I prefer people get my name right. There’s a lot of history behind it.

    I’m sure. Agent Powell was silent for a long moment, studying the ID card. Slowly he handed it back. This says you’re in the planning directorate. I didn’t know CIA even had a planning directorate. Shouldn’t it say operations?

    It says what it says. Langston’s smile slipped several notches, down from frosty to something approaching the chill of outer space. He gave a slight roll of his eyes, heavenward. I’m not here to discuss the things you don’t know, even if we had the time.

    Jack averted his gaze, keeping a poker face, biting his lips, not wanting to draw attention. He knew better than to interrupt. The room suddenly seemed quiet.

    A long moment passed.

    I’m required to present my creds when talking officially to US law enforcement, Langston finally said in a neutral tone. It’s not a ritual I’m much accustomed to, nor one I personally deem beneficial, but I just complied with your request. That’s all you get.

    Powell wouldn’t let it go. You’re a long way from Langley for a planning guy. I assume ‘planning’ is a euphemism for dirty tricks.

    I’m told most of the Bureau’s agents have legal training. Is that correct?

    Absolutely.

    "Then you should know better than to voice unwarranted assumptions about classified subjects. It means what it says, ‘plans,’ and the title is Deputy Director. When you leave this room, I expect all the bugs and cameras will be turned off. All of them.

    Langston gestured at the wall. I want a tight cover over that one-way glass and everyone out of the observation room. I also want the area cleared and the door to this room latched so it doesn’t lock us in. Do you understand me clearly?

    I don’t understand you at all, Powell said, looking past him as the door opened and the younger agent came back with a big red-haired man with freckles and a pug nose. Powell shot pug nose a quizzical look. Sir?

    I heard. Do what he said.

    Yes, Sir. Powell looked disgusted, but stood up and got ready to leave.

    The pug looked at Langston. You’re a long way off the reservation. My name’s Blackwell. I’m special agent in charge here.

    Langston nodded.

    Does he work for you? The pug pointed at Jack.

    Let’s just say he’s on loan. If I don’t return him in good condition, I won’t get my money back.

    The pug snorted. He seemed to find that amusing. Fine by me. He’s your problem.

    Thank you for the professional courtesy, Agent Blackwell. I’ll see it’s noted. Langston’s tone sharpened, One more thing….

    The FBI agents stopped, Powell with his hand on the door, looking angry. Langston ignored them. Make sure your agents forget about this. Scrub the logs. It never happened.

    Right, said the pug, staring at Jack. He gestured at the door, waiting for his agents to leave and close it before he finished. Can I ask who he is?

    Langston sighed. He doesn’t exist.

    Thought you’d say that. The pug smiled thinly, shaking his head. I’ll send in some coffee and make sure you’re left alone.

    Perrier, please. Chilled if possible. Ice on the side, if not. And bottled water for my friend. He’s probably thirsty after your interrogation.

    No problem, the pug said. Let me know if you need anything else.

    Thank you, Agent Blackwell. Langston waited for the agent to leave and the door to close before he eased himself into Agent Powell’s chair, unconsciously tugging his trousers to keep the creases sharp. He was scowling.

    Jack shifted uncomfortably. I was trying to keep a low profile….

    You dropped off the radar completely. Why didn’t you check-in?

    I was doing my job, trying to save a man’s life, and I did report in.

    The hell you did.

    I sent you a note.

    Langston snorted and tossed a black passport on the table. Right. ‘I’ll explain later, Arvy,’ delivered with this to the embassy in Luanda, isn’t a check-in. Customs wouldn’t have bothered you if you’d used that cover identity. What are you doing in Seattle?

    Passing through. Jack shrugged. I took the escape and evasion course.  Seattle’s on the penetration route from the Pacific.

    That’s not what I mean, and you know it.

    It’s a long story. He’d used the John Black cover for so long it was now a part of him. Jack slowly reached out and touched the passport with a finger, gently pushing it back to the center of the table. He was almost afraid to touch it, as if it would infect him somehow, perhaps with a form of insanity.

    Langston was watching him carefully. Why didn’t you stick with your cover?

    I couldn’t. The ambassador put John Black on the watch list. He was blocking us. Gave me a lecture about not interfering in the internal affairs of a sovereign nation. After my client got shot, he washed his hands. It was a total cluster fuck over there. Jack could hear the anger in his own voice and saw his hands were shaking. He folded them in his lap.

    "They are in the middle of a revolution," Langston said slowly.

    Just one?

    It’s on the news, Langston said. They’re discussing it in the Security Council. The ambassador is concerned.

    So he said. The bastard sits in his fortress over in Abuja watching CNN, 350 miles away, and to hell with any Americans unfortunate enough to be stuck in the piss hole of a country he’s responsible for. You ever been there?

    Langston shook his head.

    "Nigeria has a dozen different political parties, not counting the jihadists and the rebels. Violence between them is constant. Politicians disappear or are arrested daily. The government’s one of the most corrupt in the world, and it’s a safe haven for worldwide narco traffickers and money launderers. On top of that, the Muslims and Christians are in constant communal conflict, resulting in a million or so internally displaced persons.

    There’s also an AIDs epidemic, malaria, typhoid, Lassa fever, major air and water pollution, and a marvelous mix of seasonal drought and flooding. Plus frequent oil spills. We had to import all our drinking water. And despite Nigeria’s oil production, the government’s lavishly overspent its income for years and is broke, except no one wants to call in their debt or take them over. Plus, despite the high mortality rates, they’re badly overpopulated. It’s the most populous nation in Africa, and that’s saying a lot.

    Indeed, Langston said. Many problems. But the rebels are the ambassador’s current priority. It appears they had you cut off and isolated in Lagos?

    The rebels. Jack sighed. "We saw the United Muslim Freedom Party on television, but I have no idea who was fighting in the streets, much less over what. There were three or four factions shooting at each other.

    "Lagos is on an island – four small islands, actually. Someone blocked the bridges and cut us off from the mainland. The UMFP said it wasn’t them. They blamed it on the Peoples Salvation Party. The PSP blamed the PRP. Who blamed the ANPP, who blamed someone else.

    "There was even a group called the Buck-Naked Brigade who did take credit, but most people I talked with thought they were lying. Some religious cult based on voodoo. They fight in the nude."

    Langston raised an eyebrow. You’re kidding.

    Didn’t believe it myself until I saw them, Jack said. Naked as jaybirds, they carry AKs and have pistols belted around their waists. It’d be hilarious, except they kill people at random, just for fun. It’s the freaking twilight zone over there. Tribes of hopped up crazies running around with automatic weapons.

    You asked for U.S. citizens to be pulled out, Langston said.

    That’s right. Jack nodded. A month ago. The ambassador refused. The little prick also cut off my communications through the embassy, which compromised my mission all to hell.

    Davis could have left.

    Could have, should have, but wouldn’t. Said he’d promised to run a demo, people were depending on him and he was used to keeping his word. He met with representatives from the various groups and factions, but never understood what was going on. If he didn’t know, I’m damned sure the ambassador doesn’t have a clue.

    That’s how Davis got shot?

    Yes, Jack said. He arranged a meeting with the Peoples Redemption Party. When we opened the gates to let them in, all hell broke loose. Bob took a bullet, the embassy’s security guy went down, and our guards opened up with suppression fire. We had no military support or med evac. I had to call in a favor from an Air Force buddy to get a helo out to one of the oil rigs.

    Who shot Davis?

    Good question.

    You don’t know?

    Jack shook his head. It was a sniper at long range, and I don’t think the PRP did it.

    Why not?

    Some of their people went down too. The streets around the compound were littered with bodies and shell casings.

    Globalization. Langston shrugged. Regional instability. Terrorism. Shit happens.

    Nigeria was madness. Bob Davis was a good man, a patriot, and shouldn’t have been over there in the first place. Why the hell does our government pressure Americans to do business in such places?

    The Federal Republic of Nigeria is oil rich, Langston said dryly. We’re their biggest trading partner for both exports and imports. They speak English and gave Davis’ firm, Enertech, cheap loans and a tax free zone to develop his new power sources, which we wouldn’t allow here.

    Typical fucking Washington politics, Jack said. Rules and plans devised by bureaucrats in buildings without windows who don’t have a clue what’s happening in the real world. There’s a pattern here, and it’s a pattern of failure. The people who think up this stuff….

    No one forced Davis to take the deal. We can’t get in the way of free enterprise and democracy, can we?

    What I know is Bob Davis died in agony with a bullet in his gut, and it didn’t need to happen, Jack said. He leaves a wife and two kids. Enertech employs several hundred people, and it’ll probably fold without him. Plus the nation loses a champion for a technology that could free us from petroleum dependence. Are you going to tell me that’s good for America?

    At least you got out. Langston was studying him carefully. And I think I just figured out what you’re doing here enroute to Oregon. Perhaps I should give you the cautionary talk, the one for new agents about personal involvements.

    Don’t bother, Jack said. I’m going to Bob’s funeral to see him buried and pay my respects to his wife and family. Then I’ll report to my boss and debrief.

    I talked with Mac. He says you’re planning on resigning.

    He’s right. This time I’m not going to be talked out of it.

    You’re making a mistake, Langston said. Mac’s Technology Warfare Center is a national treasure.

    More like a relic of the Cold War. Half of us are off the books now, working as consultants. If it wasn’t for agency help, we couldn’t function at all.

    You don’t know, do you? Langston said.

    Know what?

    Langston reached into a pocket, produced a print of a digital photograph, and tossed it on the table next to the John Black passport.

    Jack frowned and shook his head. It looked like a bright, shiny silver coin, surrounded by drab brown buildings, seen in high-resolution color from overhead. What am I looking at?

    You tell me.

    No idea. It looks like a cross between Google Earth and The Twilight Zone. Some weird assed special effect maybe.

    What you’re seeing is quite real. The disk you see is over a mile and a half in diameter. I’m told it’s glass. The metallic impurities and surface smoothness give it the silvery sheen.

    So?

    The center of the disk is the Enertech compound in Lagos.

    Jesus, Jack said. What happened?

    That’s what we want to ask you, Langston said. Mac’s on the ground by now. He should be here shortly.

    Chapter 3 – Sunlight and Flowers

    The Sanctuary, Jasper County, Oregon

    The Sanctuary was breathtaking. Jack sat there drinking it in. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen such a peaceful and welcoming environment. Beauty was everywhere. It flooded his senses with bright colors, harmonious sounds, and the fragrance of flowers.

    The parking lot was surrounded by pristine forest and he’d crossed a rustic wooden footbridge over a rippling brook to enter the large sanctuary. Golden sunlight spilled through the high windows, and the room was filled with a myriad of bright flowers. The stage at the front of the room was ringed with flower arrangements, and there were wreaths on stands in the hall outside. There were a lot of roses, mostly red, but some white and yellow.

    If anything, the sounds were more vivid. The choir was a sweet chorus singing of eternity, peace, and humanity coming together: something about smiling children and how the colors of the rainbow were mirrored in their faces. The faces of those congregants he could see radiated peace and contentment.

    The scene was refreshing, Jack decided. He’d become infected with a hardening of the attitudes, a bleakness that was hard to push aside. But this was good. He started to relax.

    I think I like this world better, Jack thought, feeling as if he’d just stepped

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