Prologue

He placed the book down on the table gently, careful not to block his own view of the words he wouldn’t stop reading for the sake of a sip of bad coffee. His left hand pressed the pages as flat as the book’s binding would permit as he slowly brought the nearly overfilled cup to his lips. He paused for a moment, first to take in the next line of the book, then diverting his focus to the cup, sensing that its contents were still too hot to drink, he lowered the cup back onto the stain it had left the last time he’d tried to take a sip. He turned the page to find the book’s conclusion closing in on him. Only a few precious paragraphs were left standing between him and the reality of his life, his job, this world that he certainly wouldn’t claim as his own. Nothing was his own anymore.

His name was Brandon Webb, but that wasn’t his either. There was a time when he’d had a name, a wife, even a house. He had medals on his chest and trophies on his shelves. Yes, he even had his own shelves. That was all gone now, sacrificed to the necessity of his cause and done so eagerly. Thirty two years old with a two year old name, a week to week lease on a single room, a bad cup of coffee and a good book. Well, it had been a good book at least.

“Yes, dammit, I said ‘was’. The bitch is dead now.”

He paused on that last line. Perfect. Ian Fleming couldn’t have known when he’d written Casino Royale in 1953 that one day, in another hemisphere, a disheartened player in the intelligence game would be reading his book for the third time with a longing usually reserved for runners up. When Brandon arrived on Roatan Island he was fresh from six months of training with the best surveillance equipment and firepower on the planet. He, and the world around him, were budding with promise. A new life simply wouldn’t have done, but a renewed sense of duty, in fact, a renewed sense of worth had pumped fiery purpose into his veins. His every move mattered. His every conversation could change the world.

But it had been two years. The fiery purpose had since smoldered into nothing more than simple responsibility. He ached against the constraints of his mission, but when he sat and put thought to it, couldn’t think of a single thing he actually ached for. He didn’t miss home, he’d never really had one, and though he did have family back in the States he was sure what they felt was an obligation to miss him more than any real sadness. No, Roatan Island might not have been where he felt like he belonged, but he knew in his bones that he didn’t truly belong anywhere. A sojourner of sorts, burdened with a mission that would probably never matter and doomed to carry it out alone. Brandon Webb could never have a home, a family, or medals to hang on his chest. Brandon Webb could never be anything more than a face in the crowd.

Covert intelligence is not merely the stuff of books and movies. There are operatives everywhere, from just about every country. Most of them don’t carry a gun or even a camera. You probably saw one this morning waiting in line for your coffee. Why would a Russian operative waste his time at the Starbucks on 73rd street when the United Nations building, surely ripe with secrets and intrigue, was but a short bus ride away? Well, presumably because there were already plenty of operatives there, Brandon supposed the last time he wondered why he couldn’t have landed that gig, but more so because the intelligence game is much more like the worst political science class he’d taken in college combined with the most awful sociology course he’d ever suffered and then stretched into an entire way of life. Brandon Webb was a covert intelligence analyst stationed on Roatan Island, Honduras, and for the past two years his primary responsibility had been to read the newspaper. Every day.

He set the book down again and made another attempt at the coffee. It was still a bit too hot, but he’d grown tired of waiting. He took a small sip, burning a bit of his upper lip and the tip of his tongue. At this rate there would never be room in the glass for any whiskey. He peered over the glass at Ramon as he tidied the counter from his position near what seemed like too big a machine to produce only coffee, particularly coffee that, despite being served fresh each morning, had never been any better than mediocre in the six months Brandon had been coming in. What monster could have created a coffee machine that seemed only to produce bitter, caffeinated lava? What fool would buy it? While Ramon was clearly the answer to the latter, for all Brandon knew of Ramon, he might have been the answer to both of those questions.

Ramon noticed the attention he was getting and smiled, “coffee all right?”

Brandon smiled back and raised his glass, “Good as always, mi amigo,” he set the glass back down.

“You’re right, you are Canadian,” Ramon stated matter of factly.

“Because I’m polite?” Brandon responded nonchalantly.

“Because Americans are better liars.” Ramon laughed as he turned and headed into the back room to get his trusty broom. There was little to differentiate the dirt the street was made of from the rest of Honduras, but Ramon had made it a personal quest to keep as much of it outside the four walls of his quaint coffee house as he could. Of course, because the primary source of light in the coffee house came from the sun and because his windows lacked any glass, it was a doomed enterprise. Brandon appreciated speaking English for a change, even if just for a moment, but the moment had passed. He slid the book into his backpack and picked up a fresh newspaper from a stack on his table. The headline read, “Border Dispute!” He’d make sure to include it in his report.