Monday, April 08, 2013

Installment 9 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that
may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's not
for you…

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events
described here are imaginary: the settings, events and
characters are fictitious,and/or are the product of the
author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons
(living or dead) is entirely coincidental.



Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.


Sneak and Peek: A Fictional Blog


Installment Nine of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


By F. Scott Sinclair



FBI Special Agent Edward Q. Sessions



My partner, Mike Ellsworth, sat glued to the steering
wheel while we maintained surveillance on a four storey
apartment house. There was supposed to be a sleeper
cell of suspected terrorists holding up on the second floor.
The NSA sent us an urgent alert that piqued our interest.
The suspects names were Luther James and Paul
Krugar. Both suspects were considered armed and
dangerous.

We were parked about a hundred yards down
the street near the entrance to a cul de sac that
had a large Willow tree that provided abundant
shade and concealment. Through the strands of
Weeping Willow whips—as I like to refer to
them—that draped themselves in a bow-shaped
fashion from the heavens downward, I could see
some activity in suspect one’s apartment.
The apartment house appeared to be an old
rectangular wood frame white Army barracks that
had been refurbished. Before we could do a sneak
and peek intrusion on our targets, we’d have to get at
least one of them out of their apartment for awhile. I
raised my secure cell phone, dialing my dispatcher,
and asked, “Can you have Ferguson give target
one a tickler call. Check the profile and redirect
to target two.”

“Will do, boss... We’ll hang-up before either target 
can answer. Hopefully, one or other will return the 
missed call,” the dispatcher said.

“That’s my boy. We’ll cross our fingers. Later,” I said, 
as I shutoff the lit display of the cell phone.

“What’s up...?” my partner asked.

“Get ready. We’re about to make another intrusion.”

“Sneak and peak time!” Mike said with as much 
enthusiasm as he could muster under the circumstances. 
It was cold outside, and inside as well... The car's cheap 
heater that went to the lowest bidder spewed its warmth 
only periodically.

To my surprise, I saw the curtains in suspect one’s apartment 
window being drawn closed, and said, “Got some activity, Mike.”

As I pulled the binoculars from the bridge of my nose, Mike 
says, “It’s a go then...?”

His pale expression and the mist emitted from between 
his lips due to the chill, was a sight to behold. A big 
question mark if I’d ever seen one made of flesh and 
bone. I said, “Hold your horses, Dick Tracy; your 'get 
out of jail free' burglary card doesn't get validated until 
the suspects depart the scene.”

He removed his hands from the steering wheel, then pulled 
his brown leather gloves off, and said, “Yeah, I hear you. 
But I’m going to get a little practice time in with these 
lock picks, and the rest of my U.S. government issued
burglary outfit.”

I said, facetiously, “Don’t they issue a sledge hammer with 
that stuff?”

“That’s a different kit. Sneak and peak paraphernalia is 
designed for clandestine intrusion. Nobody’s ever 
supposed to know... You know, KGB shit. Or’d you 
forget the difference between Black Ops and White Ops?”

“Never heard of White Ops before? Okay, I coined the term. To 
me it means: legal Black Ops.”

“Clever,” I said, placing the binoculars back on the 
bridge of my nose, resting the round aperture lenses 
against the sockets of my eyes, just below eyebrow level.

As Mike tinkered with his intrusive equipment, I spotted 
the suspects leaving the apartment. After hailing a taxi, 
they got in and headed south in our direction. “Better hit 
the deck, partner. They’re headed this way.”

As we both slouched down in our seats, Mike says, “Is 
the coast clear?”

The yellow Toyota Corolla cab passed us very slowly. 
I thought I’d gotten a truly nondescript vehicle with a 
phony license; but perhaps, being too phony draws 
attention also. Finally, the cab sped away. I said, “Yeah, 
the coast is clear...”

We both had our cockroach coveralls on. It
was time to play the local bug exterminator, and
I don’t mean electronic bugs. We have that kind
of exterminator also... Feeling more like KGB
agents than FBI agents, we gathered our equipment
from the trunk, and then looked around to survey
the terrain. It was near seven o’clock and most
of the neighborhood was beginning to rise and
shine. We waited a bit longer, then decided we’d
blend in with the morning traffic—so to speak—and
began our mission impossible: a sneak and peek
intrusion to find out who the bad guys were, and
what they’re up to.

I immediately pulled my cell phone out and
dialed our backup troops who were around the
corner in the exterminator van with a local
logo displayed on it. My hand felt like it was
about to become frostbitten as the wind whirled
by making the tip of my nose burn. Seattle could 
get damn cold in the winter, and this year seemed 
like a year of so-called global warming taking its 
wrath on us. It seemed too early for Icicles to form 
on the eaves of the homes and apartments that 
surrounded us.  A moment later, Special Agent Lawrence
Phillips answered his phone, and said, “Lester’s Bug and
Spray, may I help you?”

“Nice show, Phillips… It’s Show Time. We’re
on the corner of the cul de sac. Pick us up, partner.”

“That’s a roger, chief. We’ve got you in
our crosshairs…,” he said with a chuckle.

The van’s high beams flickered, and the two
of us hopped aboard the van through the rear doors.
Art Crenshaw helped us in and said to his crew outside, 
“Stay in touch and close at hand. We'll need you to cover 
our backside. But remember, Pete's crew will be spraying 
the shrubs and termites in case anyone gets curious." 

"How about suspicious?" I said.

"That, too."

We smiled knowingly at each as he closed the rear doors, 
yanking the handle in a half-moon direction. Crenshaw 
twisted around in a semi-crouched position, and said, "I 
think that'll secure the doors."

I smiled half-heartedly, and said, "Are you locking them out, or 
us in...?"

His grin said it all. 

At least our prison cell--the government office in the van--had 
electric heaters that actually worked. The car we'd arrived in, 
its heaters didn't work full-time; if at all,  making my face burn 
like hell. As my face began thawing out in my temporary office, the 
grimace that had masked my mug abated. As my eyesight was 
restored, four computer monitors came into view. They would 
would be keeping an eye out for intruders as we did our sneak
and peek. 

Before I could comment, Crenshaw says, “Len, who’s that coming 
across the lawn towards Bob and George?”

“Beats me, sir…,” Leonard Morris said, shrugging his shoulders 
through his cashmere turtleneck sweater.

I grabbed Crenshaw by the forearm, and said, “Let’s head her 
off before she makes a scene. C’mon…”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hasty?”

His eyes surveyed mine, as I replied, “It’s Gestapo time, 
ole buddy.”

Crenshaw made a face, then complied with my request 
reluctantly as he said, “I hope you know what you’re 
doing? I'd hate to tell you what kind of shit we’ll be in 
if you’ve diagnosed the situation wrong…”

Seeing his apparent nervousness, I reassured him that what 
we were about to do was both legal and necessary under 
the circumstances. He nodded affirmatively as we got out 
of the back of the van. Hurriedly, we managed to intercept 
the woman who was about to confront our crew spraying 
around the foundation of the apartment.

I shouted, “Miss…?! Can we help you?”

With her hands on her hips, the slender and high-cheek 
boned woman said caustically, “You sure can… I’m the 
manager, and I think you’d better answer my questions.”

“Everything’s all right. The owner, Mr. Slater, asked us 
to fumigate the apartments. Perhaps he hasn’t had time 
to notify you?”

“Not likely, he’s my husband. I just gave him a kiss, and 
he asked me to find out what the hell’s going on! 
Explain yourselves,” she said, her hands still on her 
hips waiting for my answer.

I had nothing to say at this point that would satisfy her, 
that I knew. I had only one trump card, and removed 
my badge and commission from my pocket, and asked, 
“I’m Special agent Sessions, and this is agent Crenshaw. 
Please don’t be afraid. We’re not going to harm anyone. 
May we talk somewhere that’s not so conspicuous?”

Removing her hands from her hips, she immediately 
sought something in the confines of her apron. She 
pulled out a package of Virginia Slims, removing one 
slender cigarette with a shaking hand. The flame 
from the silver lighter danced about as she tried to 
light it. Frustrated, she took a deep breath, and said,
“I’m sorry. You’ve caught me off guard.”

“Here, let me help you…,” I said, taking the lighter 
from her and steadying it for her.

After she’d taken a deep drag and exhaled, the ensuing 
smoke rushing from her lips, as she said, “Thanks. 
Please, come with me to the house.”

As we entered the single story ranch style home, I noticed 
the paint peeling off of the siding like dandruff, and 
thought that her house must have the same maintenance 
man as her apartment house. Pursing my lips, I said,
“Ms. Slater, we must notify you that you are hereby 
restricted from telling anyone that we’ve been here. And
I mean anyone…”

“Not even my husband whose name you seem to throw 
around as though it were your own?"

"That’s correct, Ms. Slater."

"Especially you husband...," my partner said almost 
defensively.

Flusted, with time running out--I had to get going, so 
I took agent Crenshaw aside, and said, “Tell the little 
lady here the facts and consequences if she mentions 
even one word about this to anyone—ever!”

He nodded and turned towards Ms. Slater, and said, 
“Agent Sessions here, has an appointment with destiny 
before your tenants return. I’m going to spell out the
facts of life to you…”

I smiled and excused myself, letting myself out of the 
house. I immediately rendezvoused with my accomplice 
in legal crime on the second floor. Before I’d got
there, agent Ellsworth, had already burglarized the 
apartment of our first target...coming up with zip. 

We then went to suspect two's apartment and entered 
using our official government burglary kit that looked as 
those it had been issued in a box of Cracker Jacks.  As 
Mike was searching through the suspect's dresser 
drawers, I noticed a computer beneath a stack of books. 
I perused the notebooks next to the computer, and said, 
“Hey, Mike…! Christ, I’ve hit pay dirt.”

After quickly returning the contents of the drawer he'd 
examined, Mike rushed over, and says, “Got something?”

“Shit…! Have I got somethin’? Take a look yourself…”

His eyes bulged out of his head, as he immediately 
removed a microfilm camera from his pocket. “Man, 
this crap will hang this bastard from the highest lamppost! 
Oh, man, look at this…”

I took one of the other notebooks from the pile, and said, 
“Damn, a fucking writer’s diary! This bastard’s a writer?”

Raising his brows, Mike stared out the window, and says, 
“And a friggin’ novelist at that…”

“Piss on it. Film it anyway, and we’ll use his conspiracy shit 
against him based on the fact that he’d made contact with 
a sleeper cell. In this case, as seems to be standard operating
procedure: our suspects are guilty until proven innocent! 
How’s that…?”

“Par for the course…”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“Forget it, we’ve got a whole lot of sneaking and peeking 
to do. Onward Christian Soldiers…!” he said sarcastically, 
as he prepared to copy the notebook's hard drive.

I knew the conflict that was boiling within my partner’s 
mind. I could tell his soul was being destroyed by the 
KGB tactics that our employer--the FBI--has been 
employing in order to stop the so-called War on 
Terrorism. He might as well have said: the War on Dissent. 
Oh well, as the man has confirmed in his infinite wisdom: 
The Constitution is only a goddamn piece of paper! I 
remember telling my teacher in Junior High School that 
the Constitution was a fantasy document, and mentioned 
the McCarthy hearings to make my point. Boy, that seemed 
to shut that bitch's mouth which didn't help my grade any. 
If she only knew, I'm experiencing the truth of my own words.

All I could say after pondering my thoughts was, “I hear you… 
Now, let’s get busy.”

“Right…” he said, with about as much enthusiasm as the 
French soccer team showed after they lost to Italy. If I didn’t 
know him better, I’d think he was about to give the closet
door a head butt like the Frenchman did near the end of 
the FIFA championship.

We gathered our evidence and departed like a couple of 
crooks who’d just been pardoned at the last moment by the 
President of the United States absolving our current and 
future crimes. Land of the free, I thought. For some, perhaps…

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A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - 
F. Scott latest published novel. I hope you enjoy it as much
as I enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine 
stores & affiliates.

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Here are excellent previews of the following novels for your 
reading pleasure. If you like "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel 
of America"--perhaps you might enjoy these books penned 
by F. Scott. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books 

                                                      

                                                       AND



Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. 


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Al-Ahram Weekly | People | Limelight: Bourne to be a classic

A tribute to the world's best thriller writer: Robert Ludlum with a
quote or two from novelist F. Scott Sinclair in the process.
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