Dark Edge: Prequel to the C.O.I.L. Series Page 3

  Chapter Three – The Agent

  Corban Dowler didn't like living on the run, but after a lifetime of clandestine reporting and shadowing active provocateurs, he'd learned to tolerate the lack of sleep and hasty meals. Though he was in enough danger to warrant hiding underground, he knew God wanted him to live up to his potential. The sheer magnitude of his resources were beyond the Agency's control or knowledge, so he was determined to take on the Agency rather than disappear in silence.

  Though Langley had shut down his personal digital access, he had a dozen other identities he'd used for various missions, and most of those had been black operations, now buried in sealed documents, hidden in numbered boxes, stored in a basement long forgotten. But the identities were still intact in his memory.

  Most of his identities were completely fictional, but a couple had full livelihoods and reputations—because they had been actual people at some point. Once caught or killed, terrorists or international enemies of the state often left behind estates and accounts that many foreign governments dared not claim for fear of reprisal. Corban had anticipated future hardships, and he'd claimed some of these covers as his own. Now that he had only himself to depend on, he still had what he'd built while he was a spy and a spy hunter. It was part of his Endgame Protocol—an agent's contingency plan if his own government turned against him.

  In Paris, en route to India, Corban used a laptop to log into a Japanese proxy server, then tapped into a Langley database in San Diego. He couldn't identify who'd been activated against him, but high level assets had been mobilized, locked behind codenames recently implemented. The secrecy alone told him it was a major operation, maybe involving Director Jacob Dench himself. They were coming to kill him, and he could count on the very best the CIA and its allies could muster to prove their patriotism by shedding his blood.

  Or worse, Corban had many international enemies who would love to kill him, if they knew he was fair game and no longer under the shield of the CIA. But no, Corban decided. The CIA wouldn't risk him being captured by an aggressor from an enemy nation. The Agency would make sure he was killed, and quickly, to put him in the grave with all his secrets.

  His watch beeped and he looked up. He saw an attractive Israeli woman across the terminal—beautiful, certainly, but he also knew her to be deadly. And she was right on time, her flight to Tel Aviv leaving minutes after his own to Bangalore.

  Collecting his laptop and carry-on bag, he crossed the corridor and sat in a seat facing her own. Passing through Paris on his way to India had been intentional. Meeting the pretty Mossad agent was a top priority for his future work for Jesus Christ.

  "May I ask you a question?" He spoke English, though having read her profile, he knew she spoke German, Hebrew, and Arabic.

  Her gaze was intense, as if she was able to see through the fake eyebrows and the plaster around his fake nose. He'd also applied makeup under his eyes and on his cheeks to give him a dark, gaunt appearance.

  She browsed the corridor, maybe anticipating an ambush. Only an experienced field agent was that cautious.

  "I'm alone, Chloe." He crossed his legs and put his arm across the back of the chair next to him. "I come on behalf of my employer, Corban Dowler."

  "Corban . . . Dowler?" Chloe Azmaveth frowned, and swiped the dark curls from her temple, perhaps to improve her peripheral vision. "Dowler's in no position to employ anyone last I heard, which was pretty recent. What's your question?"

  "Well, it's more of a proposition, actually. Dowler is being hunted because he became a Christian and refused to kill a man, a British traitor to the North Koreans."

  "Dowler's a Christian?" She scoffed. "We must not be talking about the same Dowler! The Dowler I know . . . well, let's just say I'd prefer walking into the same room as a suicide bomber than be in the same room with him."

  "In a few days, the Agency will allow Dowler to retire in peace. Then he wants to use his network to set up a Christian spy agency."

  "The CIA will never allow Dowler to retire, unless it's to an unmarked grave." Chloe unbuttoned her blazer, as if she expected physical conflict. "Dowler's been around too long. He knows too much."

  "That's precisely why they'll soon realize they're better off keeping him alive. They'll have to. Dowler has an Endgame Protocol."

  "Figures. If anybody did, he would." She sat up a little straighter. "So, you said a Christian spy agency? How's that supposed to work?"

  Corban hesitated as he noticed a large black man veer away from his approach when Corban looked his way. The man had a scar across the bridge of his nose and seemed familiar. But an airport identification on his belt marked him as a baggage administrator. Looking back at the Israeli agent, Corban noticed that Chloe was now holding a pair of glasses. He knew she didn't wear glasses. She'd weaponized a pair of reading glasses, he guessed.

  "Christians are dying for the gospel all over the world," Corban said. "Those of us who are Christians, like Dowler now, are so busy operating for amoral governments, we have no time to tend to God's people. But we could. Dowler wants you to help."

  "Like I said, I don't want to be anywhere near Dowler. The man's a walking target—not to mention more dangerous than anyone I've heard about. You sound like you're an America, so you know how the top gunslinger in your Western movies attracts the most bullets."

  "What's a few bullets if you could save souls?" Corban rose to his feet, and saw her tense. "Dowler will come for you in a few weeks."

  "Well, I'm not going with him!" She laughed. "We've never even met!"

  "I know you're a Christian, Chloe. Last October, you filed a DAR from Sydney stating that as a Christian, you were morally obligated to help persecuted Christians in Indonesia. Then you flew to Sumatra against your government's orders, and you saved lives."

  "How . . . do you know about that? Daily activity reports are top secret." She stood up, the glasses gripped firmly in her fist. "Leaving the Mossad won't be any easier for me than Dowler leaving the Agency."

  "Easy or not, we have to trust God with the details as we obey His call. Will you risk your life for God's people?"

  "I—" She smiled and pocketed the glasses. "I've risked my life for my amoral country, as you called it. Seems as a Christian, I should gladly do the same for God's own people. You could say . . . I'm interested."

  "I'll tell Dowler you're in." Corban shifted his feet. "Tell me: is the black man over my right shoulder watching us?"

  "Yes. A friend of yours?" The glasses came smoothly from her pocket again. "I've seen him before, in the Ukraine."

  "Who does he belong to?"

  "He's a Brit, I think. A Russian diplomat died in Moldova when he was there."

  Corban turned as his flight number was called.

  "That's my flight. Stay safe, Chloe. We'll be in touch."

  "Wait. What about the Brit? You want me to, I don't know . . . distract him?"

  "No, he already found me." Corban smiled. "Maybe I can turn him, huh? Preferably before he kills me."

  Corban studied the faces of those in the airport terminal. His life depended on remembering their faces. If they were agents sent to kill him, he wanted to recognize them again if they approached him later.

  "Sounds like something only Corban Dowler would be confident enough to say." She held out her hand. "Go with God, sir. It's an honor to hear you're finally in the shadow of the cross."

  Corban shook her hand, then left to board his flight. The last he saw, the black agent—probably an assassin—was approaching Chloe Azmaveth at her departure gate. But Corban didn't worry about her. If she was half as skilled as her IDF profile claimed she was, the British assassin would have his hands full.

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