The Langley Profile Read online

  The

  Langley

  Profile

  By

  Jack Bowie

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jack Bowie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the author. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected].

  Visit the author’s web site at www.JackBowie.com

  Cover design by Renee Barratt, www.TheCoverCounts.com

  Photo element sourced from The World Factbook

  and the Central Intelligence Agency.

  To my wife Sharon, and daughters Lisa and Jennifer,

  with all my love.

  Contents

  Title

  Begin Reading

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Outside of Springfield, Massachusetts

  Thirty Years Ago

  It would have surprised the two college students to know that the events of this snowy night would elevate them to the pinnacle of their chosen fields. Then plummet them into an eternal abyss.

  “Now that was a helluva party,” the driver yelled as he pounded his hands on the steering wheel. He was bundled in two heavy overcoats and looked like an over-stuffed Pillsbury Doughboy.

  “Keep your hands on the goddamn wheel,” exclaimed his passenger. He was similarly dressed, but still shivering in his seat, one hand around the door handle, the other pulling a nylon ski parka tighter around his thin body. His right hand was bone white; he couldn’t tell whether the lack of color was due to the death grip he had maintained for the past half-hour or the frigid cold inside the vehicle. “Can you even see the friggin’ road?”

  Snow whirled in every direction, making visibility nearly zero, and the wind buffeted the Mustang first in one direction, then the other. It was if they were encased in a snow-globe being shaken by an over-active giant toddler.

  “No. But all I have to do is follow the tire tracks. You worry too much.”

  “It’s my goddamn car!”

  “Quit whining. And you should have thought of all that before you got plastered at that party. You think I was going to let you drive me back to West Point?”

  A gust of wind knocked the car to the right, pushing it into the breakdown lane. The driver jerked the wheel to the left, struggling to keep the Mustang on the road.

  “Shit! You’re going to get us killed. Why don’t we stop and wait it out? There’ll have to be a plow soon.”

  “Oh, shut the hell up,” yelled back the driver. “It’s tough enough seeing where I’m going without listening to you whine. You know I have to get back tonight.”

  The Mustang’s wipers strained against the waves of snow cascading onto the windshield. They bent under the onslaught like the boughs of a tree in a hurricane.

  A flash of lightning suddenly disclosed the previously hidden shoulders of the road and the travelers saw they were actually headed into the depressed median of the highway.

  “Get back on the road,” screamed the passenger. “There’s a damn ditch over there!”

  “Goddamn it!” The driver jerked the wheel to the right. The front wheels held, steering the car back to the center, but the rear tires slid across the icy surface forcing the car into a spin. The driver spun the wheel back to the left. The rear tires finally found traction and the car pushed forward. Two more corrections and he had the Mustang back in control.

  He finally had time to gasp for a breath.

  “Come on, man,” pleaded the passenger. “Slow down. You can’t see where we’re going.”

  “I’ve got to get back. I can’t afford another demerit on my record.”

  “Demerits? I thought you were the perfect soldier.”

  “Well, some of the other cadets haven’t figured that out yet. They just need a little persuasion. And they’re the ones that are ‘gonna end up face down in some goddamn sand pit. Not me. I’ve got plans.”

  “Yeah. You’ve always got plans. Like having to do the Seven Sisters. No sane man would have gone out to Mount Holyoke in weather like this.”

  “Yep. You gotta have goals. And what could be more satisfying than a romp with those snooty broads?”

  “So did you score?”

  “Of course. Six down one to go.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “Who else? Radcliffe, of course.” The driver shrugged his shoulders, then pushed his head forward and squinted through the windshield.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’. Headlights ahead. All we have to do now is follow them. It’s all good.” He pressed harder on the accelerator.

  * * *

  Sarah Diane McAllister was having her own problems navigating the storm. Her Beetle fared little better in the blizzard than the Mustang, but at least she was sober.

  She should have never left Springfield. Waiting out the storm in the nurse’s lounge at the hospital made a lot more sense. But she didn’t have a choice.

  “Why did he have to break his arm tonight?” she asked her non-existent companion as she cautiously navigated another icy bend in the road. “The stupid man is too old to be playing against those undergraduates.”

  Every Tuesday evening, her husband played pick-up basketball at the Yale gym. He was a third-year graduate student, for heaven’s sake. Why did he think he could play with those young kids? Teaching three classes, finishing his dissertation, and working part-time at the computing center wasn’t enough? He still had to prove how macho he was.

  So every Tuesday night, after her shift at the hospital, Sarah prepared the Epsom salts bath and nursed her infantile husband’s bruises and aches. If he hadn’t been so pathetic, and so sexy, she would have hit him over the head with a frying pan.

  At least their daughter was safely at home with the nanny. It was one of their few indulgences.

  So here she was, fighting this dreadful storm. She would go to the infirmary, pick up her husband, then get home to hug their daughter. Well, she would be able to hug their daughter.

  A flash of lightning illuminated a fallen tree limb just yards ahead.

  Lightning? In a snowstorm? Only in New England.

  She clenched the steering wheel as the Beetle hit the limb and bounced over the obstacle. The rear tires spun as they tried to grip the frozen path.

  “Time to slow down, Sarah. You won’t be any help if you get in an accident.”

  She nursed the brakes and edged the Volkswagen out of the travel lane, finally coming to a stop in the white powder on the side of the road.

  * * *

  “See? I told you we would be fine. The storm’s even letting up.”

  The past ten minutes had passed without consequence and the buffeting wind had subsided. The passenger pried his hand from the door handle and stretched his fingers. Then he pointed into the darkness ahead.

  “Those lights are getting brighter. You’re coming up too fast.”

  “Now you’re worried I’m too close. Just let me drive. Maybe we should talk about how you screwed up with that bitchy blonde.”

  “Hey, there was nothing wrong with Julie. I just needed a little more time. You’re the one that insisted we had to leave. I guess you got what you wanted from that hot redhead. You looked like you’d died and gone to heaven. Then there was that—”

  A
gust of wind suddenly shoved the car forward. It felt like they had been rammed by a semi. The driver jammed the brake pedal into the floorboard, which had the immediate effect of eliminating what little road grip he had.

  “Shit! I can’t control it,” he yelled over another crack of thunder. “We’re going to hit that car!”

  The Mustang slid toward the guardrail, directly behind the source of the taillights: an ugly lime-green Beetle that glowed in the light of the oncoming vehicle’s headlamps like a bloated tomato worm. The much heavier Mustang hit below the Beetle’s bumper, raised it up, and flipped it over the rail.

  Then the Mustang bounced against the rail, violently throwing the inhabitants into the thinly-padded dashboard, and slid for another twenty feet before stopping crosswise by the side of the road.

  They awoke, dazed, a few seconds later. Two quick evaluations showed only minor cuts and bruises.

  “What the hell happened?” the driver asked.

  “We crashed, dammit. Are you okay?”

  “I think so. How about you?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” He opened the door, leaned out and emptied his stomach into the snow.

  The driver opened his door and staggered out onto the road. The wind had stopped, and light snow floated gently in the air. The scene would have been idyllic, except for the mangled guardrail and damaged Mustang. He trudged around the back of the car to his friend. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, great. Next time go to the damn party by yourself.” The passenger grabbed the top of the door and pulled himself up. Looking to his left, he saw a crumpled right quarter panel, the headlamp area completely collapsed. “Shit! Look at my car. What the hell do we do now? And where’s the other car?”

  The driver scanned the landscape but saw nothing. “It must be here somewhere. We hit back there.” He pointed back down the road.

  They trudged through six inches of heavy snow to the guardrail and followed the deep gouges made by his car. The point of impact was obvious. The rail was bent into the snow, nearly buried. On the other side, a furrow of packed snow led down into a shallow ravine.

  “It must be down there,” the passenger said. “We’d better take a look.”

  “Why the hell do you want to go down there? We need to check the car and see if it still runs.”

  “No! Someone might be hurt. I’m going down.” He stepped over the rail and gingerly worked his way down the slope. Halfway down he lost his footing and slid the rest of the way on his butt.

  The Beetle was on its tires, but apparently only after rolling at least once down the incline. The roof was smashed flat and glass lay strewn over the white blanket of snow.

  He drew closer and looked through the broken driver’s side window. A woman sat in the driver’s seat, leaning over the steering wheel. He reached in and touched her shoulder.

  “Lady? Are you okay?”

  Getting no response, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled back. A bloody face appeared and rolled in his direction. One side was horribly caved in, its eyeball hanging loosely from the broken socket. He snatched his hand back in horror.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” came a voice from the road. “Are you all right?”

  “Ah, yeah. I’m coming up.”

  The driver had returned to the Mustang and managed to get it straightened on the road. When the passenger returned to the top of the ravine, he got in and slammed the door shut.

  “What did you find?”

  “Driver was dead. Nothing we can do. Get us out of here before someone comes.”

  The driver put the car in gear and pulled out into the empty roadway.

  The next ten minutes passed in silence, neither occupant wanting to consider the ramifications of the accident.

  Hearing a noise, the driver glanced to his right and saw his friend rummaging through the glove compartment. “What are you looking for now?”

  “I cut my hand on the window of the damn Beetle. Looking for a rag or something.”

  “Well, find something. Don’t bleed all over the upholstery. Can you take care of the damage?”

  “Yeah. I got some friends in Bridgeport that can fix it. No questions asked. Just get us to West Point without another goddamn accident. I’ll clean up after you. Again.”

  * * *

  In the ravine, Sarah Diane McAllister raised her hands in the freezing cold and cried for help.

  No one came.

  PART ONE

  Boston

  Chapter 1

  Samar, Israel

  Monday, 9:00 a.m.

  Terry James didn’t realize today would make him famous. So far as he knew, it was just another day standing behind his video camera trying to make his subject look intelligent and not screw up.

  “This is truly a historic moment for the Middle East,” gushed the freshly scrubbed and painted reporter. “A moment that uniquely defines the new sense of peace and humanity in the region. Here, deep in the Negev Desert, Crown Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia is visiting a newly remodeled school serving the education needs of a small Israeli kibbutz just thirty kilometers north of the Saudi border. The excitement of the visit is clearly visible on the faces of the dedicated teachers and their students. The visit of the Crown Prince to this unique educational facility is a sign of true progress for all nations in this long-struggling part of the globe. For World News Today, this is Caren Rodriguez from Samar, Israel.”

  The red light on the camera blinked off and Rodriguez dashed to the protection of their mobile van. “Christ, it’s hot,” she exclaimed as she threw open the door. “You’d think they’d pick friggin’ better weather for these damn events.” She disappeared into the air-conditioned interior.

  James nodded supportively, fearing any lesser response would spawn another tirade by his new talking head. Rodriguez was attractive, of course; tall and slim with just enough chest and hips to make her a woman and not a child. Her shiny blond hair normally hung lightly around her shoulders, but with the heat, wind and blowing sand, she had taken her cameraman’s recommendation to tie it back in a small bun. Her dark brown eyes and high cheekbones made his shot angles easy. She was a natural beauty and even had a few real news instincts.

  But her mouth was as dirty as any he had ever heard and her temper was as hot as the chili from her home state of Texas. A prep school and Ivy League background didn’t add to her humility. She was as spoiled as they came and didn’t care who knew it.

  The network had balked at springing for airfare to Eilat, a popular resort just half an hour to the south at the tip of the Red Sea, so he had had to endure a four hour drive through the desert from Tel Aviv. Rodriguez had done nothing the whole trip but rave on about herself in her inane Southern drawl. It was all he could do to keep from smashing her face into the dashboard.

  James had managed to get along with some of the best, and the worst, reporters on the planet, but after only three weeks with Rodriguez he didn’t know how much longer he could stand it.

  Oh well, there’s always work in video documentaries.

  Surprisingly, the scene just across the tightly cordoned area of the football—well, they called it football—field was a historic moment. Crown Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia was taking his message of peace and coexistence directly to the Israeli people, today in the form of a visit to an obscure Israeli kibbutz.

  Samar was a small village, less than 300 inhabitants, most of whom were staunchly anti-Arab. But as he had in previous visits, the sincerity and charisma of the Crown Prince were having their effect. Already, he had been deemed the Bill Clinton of the Middle East; in his case for the former US President’s personality and popularity, not his all too memorable peccadilloes. It was for the world-wide inquisitiveness of all things surrounding this new actor on the political stage, that Rodriguez had been given the assignment to cover his latest “trip of peace.”

  James hoped it wouldn’t kill him.

  * * *

  Rachael Wei
tz gathered her students in a half-circle and waited for the arrival of the Saudi. A horde of reporters and photographers thankfully stood behind barriers about twenty meters away, chattering and clicking away. Weitz wasn’t all that happy about participating in what was at best a self-aggrandizing photo op for the Crown Prince, but she had received a pleading request from Jerusalem to support the visit.

  The Crown Prince, and three others, had just been announced as winners of the Nobel Peace Prize for their ground-breaking Anti-terrorism Treaty, further boosting the importance of the event. So here she was, standing in the burning sun trying to look grateful at having her well-planned class schedule completely disrupted.

  Most of her students had been indifferent to the chaos of the arrangements around the event but there was one bright spot. Noam Geer was a pathetically shy boy of eleven who had moved into the area from America just a few weeks before. He and his father had decided to start a new life following the death of Geer’s mother. Both were having difficulty adapting to the frontier-like lifestyle in Samar.

  Geer’s one love seemed to be football, which he continued to call soccer. He carried a battered ball, probably from his home in the States, stuffed into his knapsack everywhere he went. When he had heard that Faisal had been on the Saudi national soccer team in his youth, Geer had been ecstatic. Weitz had made sure he was up-front in the greeting party.

  The armored Range Rover drove up the gravel road and stopped at the assigned location. Four beefy security guards jumped from the vehicle and quickly surveyed the area. Apparently not seeing any hooded militants with ammo belts and machine guns, they opened the back door and Faisal emerged in a burst of blinding white robes trimmed in gold. He was a tall and handsome man, with swarthy skin and an ebony-black beard. Weitz could almost understand the tabloids’ obsession with the man.

  Following the requisite introductions and flowery remarks, the Crown Prince actually made an effort to speak to the children. He shook their hands, asked their names and answered their questions. As he approached Geer, the child absolutely beamed.