Mako by Clabe Taylor

Author:Clabe Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Salvo Press
Published: 2013-11-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

Fairfax, Virginia

April 2011

Drake Herrin continued to study the photograph, completely oblivious to my presence. This was a man who had worked in clandestine intelligence gathering operations his entire career and undoubtedly had a skeleton or two in his closet, but I could have sworn I saw his eyes tear up as he stared at the yellowing images of a young Mako Sloane with Boris Yeltsin, Nastya, and his Russian son.

I did appreciate the compliment, though, especially coming from someone like Herrin, whose skills and professional experience closely paralleled my own journalistic pursuits. After all, what is a journalist if not an intelligence operative without the protection of diplomatic cover? In fact, an investigative reporter’s work often was more important than the drivel his government counterpart wrote about. At least in my unbiased opinion.

I wondered how long the old CIA officer would either avoid my questions or answer them with interrogatives of his own. He was a clever old bastard; that was a given, but he must have had a reason for wanting to see me.

“So you knew about his son and daughter?” This seemed like a natural follow up to Herrin’s own murmured comments, but I saw him flinch nonetheless.

“Max, I told you I knew Mako Sloane well. Almost like a son, really. I knew his virtues. He had an abundance of those; don’t let anyone ever tell you differently. But I also knew about his peccadilloes. I’m sure you’re aware of the success Mako enjoyed with women and his occasional excesses in that regard. At times he could be immoderate in his pursuit of the fairer sex, to say the least. His flirtations with alcohol and drug use also worried me, mainly from a security point of view. However, I felt the moral implications of his personal habits were of no concern to me.”

I supposed that rambling response was meant to be an answer to my question, but I wasn’t satisfied. I took a long drink from my cold bottle of Blue Moon and looked Herrin straight in the eyes. Herrin met the challenge in my direct stare and smiled.

“Max, do you really think I’m going to let myself be interviewed by a journalist about Mako Sloane of all people? I may be over 70 now, but I still cherish hopes of enjoying the rest of my ‘golden years’ and my generous government pension. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”

There it was again. First Ortega, and now Drake Herrin with their subtle, yet sinister allusions to the danger of writing about Mako Sloane. I was flattered that these archetypal characters from the Cold War took me seriously enough to unburden their troubled souls, but I was frustrated at not being able to direct the conversation. I thought I knew what the Sloane biography was lacking, and I thirsted for that missing information. Herrin had his own ideas, though, and obviously was going to be selective about what he shared with me. Once again, I noticed the

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