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Hero's Ransom

By Diane Munson, David Munson

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In the world of secret agents, it’s hard to tell the truth from lies.
On Sunday morning in the sprawling complex in northern Virginia
that insiders fondly called “The Agency,” CIA agent Bo Rider
was on a mission to find out which was which.
A Central Intelligence Agency agent for seven years, he’d labored
at Langley in the ultra-sensitive National Clandestine Service, contracted
malaria in Brazil, paddled in a dug-out canoe on the Nile
River, and slept on cold rocks in Afghanistan, all to keep the country
safe. But, danger was what he’d signed on for, so instead of enjoying
pancakes and sausage with his family, he stepped down the familiar
hallway, a grim question on his mind and top-secret file under his
arm. He was about to close his office door and delve into the classified
matter when a hand grabbed his arm.
Ready to strike an unseen enemy, Bo freed his arm, spinning on
his heels.
“Got a minute?” In his black suit, crisp white shirt, and red-striped
tie, Director Wilt Kangas exuded power and authority, which never
ceased to impress Bo.
No one would guess the man was battling cancer. His unexpected
presence in Bo’s office doorway was perplexing. Rarely did Kangas
venture from his prestigious executive suite on the top floor to these
lower parts where Bo and the other worker bees gathered and analyzed
intelligence. Yet, here he was, and Bo dared not refuse to see
him. Still, what did Kangas want with him?
The two men stepped inside Bo’s office, exchanging no pleasantries.
Bo shut the door and, seconds later, Kangas thrust a jab, one Bo
couldn’t parry.
“Rider, have you heard from Solo?”
“Not in a while.” The CIA agent raked a hand through his curly
hair. “Frankly, I’m concerned about the lack of contact. Do you know
something I don’t?”
Kangas’s ashen face sent dread pulsing through Bo’s veins. The
real reason for the sudden visit must be bad news. Kangas was the
only person in the CIA besides Bo who knew the identity and importance
of Bo’s most valuable intelligence asset, code-named Solo.
His lips set in a tight grimace, Kangas snatched a cell phone from
its leather holder, flipping it over in his hands, as if it were a talisman
to ward off evil spirits. Bo wondered how Kangas was doing, but this
was no time to speculate on his boss’s health.
“Sir?” Bo thrust his hands into his pockets, wishing Kangas would
get to the point. Did Bo have a mess to clean up?
“No matter how friendly China acts publicly, they remain our enemy.”
Kangas leveled a hard gaze. “Recently, they hacked into the
Pentagon computers. Rumor has it China discovered a traitor in
their midst.”
As he got Kangas’s drift, Bo felt sick. All those sneak trips into
Asia, where Bo had left his wife, son, and daughter, were for nothing?
Worry over what might have happened to his highly placed spy
had kept him awake the last few nights and had driven him to the
office, even on a Sunday.
He stared back, his mind fumbling for a plan. “I’ll send out another
message.”
“How long has it been?” Kangas pocketed his phone.
“Two months to the day since we last had contact.” Even saying
it rang alarm bells in Bo’s mind. Should he admit to Kangas how
peculiar the silence was? He felt perspiration begin to bead on his
forehead.
“The Chinese are planning something against us. I want you to
find out what that is.” Kangas turned abruptly and was gone, a faint
shadow down the quiet hallway.
Bo broke out in a cold sweat. He’d faced some pretty tough assignments,
but what Kangas wanted him to do bordered on insanity—
to single-handedly discover China’s sinister intentions. Bo’s white
shirt, wet beneath the collar, clung to his neck. After the sobering
exchange, he hurried to his desk, doubt building with every step.
What was Kangas withholding?
As Bo perched on the edge of his chair, the wheels beneath him
groaned, needing a squirt of oil. If only he could grease his mind, and
solve the sticky problem Kangas had just dumped in his lap. It was
difficult trying to figure out Kangas. While Bo admired him—after all,
he led the NCS with a firm yet fair hand—his abrupt style left more
questions than answers.
Bo hated how the CIA bred a culture in which everyone distrusted
everyone else, creating a compartmentalized atmosphere. So, even
if Kangas had gotten information about China from some other intelligence
source, national security might prevent him from revealing it
to anyone, including Bo. Panic set in. Where was Solo?
Bo squeaked his chair closer to his desk, thinking how his cover
as a corporate recruiter had led to his developing Solo, who was
poised to provide him with classified intelligence about China’s satellite
program. Through online word puzzles, Solo had created a bizarre
yet ingenious system to communicate with Bo. Really, it was
the modern version of the old dead-letter drop, where agents used to
leave exposed film in hollowed logs or under bridges.
A weary grin crept onto Bo’s face as he wiped off the back of his
neck. Those days were gone and spying on foreign governments was
high-tech, most of the time. He logged onto the Internet puzzle site,
and in short order, printed out the daily word puzzle. Then, he began
the tough part—taking Solo’s grid and encoding a message. Bo forgot
all about lunch, or even refilling his coffee cup.
The whole operation with Solo was risky, fraught with danger.
Maybe the asset’s prolonged silence had a sinister purpose—to draw
Bo out to Chinese intelligence and compromise his identity. His
mind tumbled. Why had Solo cooperated in the first place? Kangas
had voiced suspicions more than once. When military intelligence
praised one of Solo’s messages, Kangas pushed Bo hard to lock in
Solo’s cooperation.
After cajoling Solo for years, Bo thought he’d finally succeeded,
but was it all a sham? The last two months were the longest hiatus
since their relationship began, and it seemed like an eternity. Bo’s
stomach rumbled a demand for food, which he forced himself to
ignore. He had only one desire to satisfy, and that was to find out if
his asset was okay or in danger.
With Solo’s grid superimposed over the printed word puzzles on
his desk, Bo composed, “RUOK OR RUSOS.” His office dark with
evening shadows, Bo logged onto their agreed website, where he
left a message: Swap Manhattan condo for condo in Beijing. Beginning
next April 12th.
If alive, Solo should see the condo swap and then go to their
agreed website and print out today’s puzzle.
“Solo, I’m reaching out to you.”
Bo’s desperate words echoed off the bare walls; he waited for an
answer, and when none came, he shut down his computer, defeat
shadowing him. After securing the file in his safe, he glanced up from
his workstation. The clock’s hour hand edged toward nine. Yikes,
he was supposed to pick up dinner. Another late night at the office
would make Julia seriously unhappy.
He swiped his jacket off the chair, locked the office door behind
him, and raced to the elevators, all the while fearing the truth. Solo
had to be in a Chinese prison.
Bo hit the down button, terrible thoughts puncturing his exhausted
mind. Was Solo still alive or had China already executed Bo’s only
Chinese asset for being a spy?

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