Paired with the stunning redhead named Jessica Fitts, aka Agent Pi, Delta is sent to Colombia on a joint operation with a colleague from the OCF's Moscow Division. There are orders to eliminate a “ghost from the past” and neutralize the threat posed by the opening of a Weapons of Mass Destruction bazaar, with an eye toward terrorist groups preparing to launch their jihad against Uncle Sam. But in a murky world where nothing is what it seems, Agent Delta will soon realize that sometimes you must make a pact with the devil to avoid a greater evil. An exciting new tale from Oscar Ortiz packed with fast-paced Action, incredible Suspense, and international Intrigue!! WRITTEN IN THE SAME SOBERING STYLE AS IAN FLEMING'S JAMES BOND NOVELS.
Paired with the stunning redhead named Jessica Fitts, aka Agent Pi, Delta is sent to Colombia on a joint operation with a colleague from the OCF's Moscow Division. There are orders to eliminate a “ghost from the past” and neutralize the threat posed by the opening of a Weapons of Mass Destruction bazaar, with an eye toward terrorist groups preparing to launch their jihad against Uncle Sam. But in a murky world where nothing is what it seems, Agent Delta will soon realize that sometimes you must make a pact with the devil to avoid a greater evil. An exciting new tale from Oscar Ortiz packed with fast-paced Action, incredible Suspense, and international Intrigue!! WRITTEN IN THE SAME SOBERING STYLE AS IAN FLEMING'S JAMES BOND NOVELS.
Right in the heart of Washington, D.C., an impressive building of gargantuan dimensions was built at the end of the second half of the 1990s. Most of the citizens who live in the U.S. Capitol will never know what mysteries are hidden in the hallways and offices of this monstrous complex built out of heavy glass panels, stainless steel, and concrete. They can’t even guess the meaning of the initials engraved ─ not painted in a striking color so as not to attract too much attention ─ that can be seen in the upper left corner of the structure’s pavilion. Only three characters, three letters as anonymous as they are lonesome: O, C, F.
On a warm June summer night, a tall man, sort of thin but with an incipient pot belly, baring Lincolnesque features that gave him a somewhat patriarchal look, walked through the desolate hallway of the East Wing of said building. He had thick silver hair that his high-class stylist kept impeccably trimmed (at two hundred and fifty dollars a cut, taxpayers’ money). His reddish skin gave him a fresh appearance and his thick black eye-brows were the focal point on his entire long face.
This individual did not carry a briefcase, but in that building, the OCF’s Washington headquarters, no one had use for them since no information printed on paper was ever allowed to leave the premises. Any official agency data he uploaded, if he did, was encrypted on the hard drive of a tiny electronic board that at the time was considered “the latest high-tech innovation.” Nowadays, of course, they are as common as the name John Smith and have been brought to the market under rather peculiar brand labels, such as BlackBerry, Sidekick LX, LG, and iPhone. The tall gray-haired man was carrying one of those curious gadgets.
This certainly said a lot about the individual. He was no fool, of course. Not even an obscure executive of that colossal and semi-anonymous new security agency of the federal government. He was the head of the entire organization.
The thick concrete gate that isolated his office from the corridor only showed, also engraved in the asphalt, the initials G.D. and everyone who had access to the innards of the modern construction knew well what they stood for: “General Director.”
The G.D. entered his workplace; the office seemed to have the same dimensions as any golf course. It even had a space conditioned to serve as a gym for the occupant with a jogging mat, a stationary bicycle, and a Universal weight-lifting machine. It also contained one of those metal and Plexiglass capsules attached to ultraviolet light bulbs that the rich and famous often employ to tan their skin.
The door closed automatically behind the G.D. and since it was a “smart building” with just a few oral commands the tall gray-haired gent managed to turn on the lights in the office and dim them; the Black & Decker percolator was also activated and started brewing coffee, and the latest generation computer resting on the large desk came to life. Before Director Feldman parked his slender buttocks on the padded seat of the high-backed swivel chair, the intercom on his desk buzzed and the voice of his secretary was heard:
“Good evening, sir.”
Feldman scratched his nose and replied: “Hi, Sally. What’s up?” while walking towards the coffee strainer.
“I just sent the data I received from the Moscow Bureau to your terminal, sir. Oh, and I also wanted to inform you that this afternoon I sent Agent Long’s transfer request to Superintendent Jenkins; it was approved, sir.”
His secretary’s comment amused him. “Of course, it was approved,” he muttered to himself, “Jenkins had no alternative.”
“Mortimer Long will arrive in Washington, D.C. tomorrow morning, sir.”
Feldman stopped and frowned. “That needs to be changed,” he said, “let Mr. Jenkins know that this is not where I’m going to need Long; have him fly directly to Miami, I will meet him at the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. Get my personal jet ready to take off in a couple of hours; I must get to Miami tonight.”
“Will do, sir.”
Without wasting time, Feldman finished making himself a coffee, to which he added cream, but no sugar. He occupied his imperial desk and dedicated himself to reviewing all the material drawn from the shared files of the legendary Moscow Bureau. Well, that “legendary” adjective was only employed among themselves, of course, we at the Quadrille ─ being a considerably much smaller outfit─ managed to inflict considerably more damage in the battle against the Russian Mafia clans than the entire OCF with all its divisions around the globe….
But let’s not go into that now and get on with the story.
The first thing Arnold Feldman noticed on his computer screen was old Yuri Pavenko’s file; I suppose his record must have impressed him. Yuri had been a very dangerous adversary during the Cold War, when he was in his prime; as a matter of fact, he still was, but Feldman was not aware of it until that warm June night when fate, as capricious as ever, caused the now-turned Russian weapons dealer to cross his path.
“Holy cow!” He spat and, frowning, leaned over the screen to devote himself fully to reading the data coming in with rising interest.
Truth be told, the Russian’s story could impress any-body.
His grandfather had been a career military man, an honorary graduate of the notorious Frunze Academy and a decorated hero of World War II. Pavenko’s dad did not follow in the grandfather’s footsteps because he had a bohemian spirit, but little Yuri did inherit the Pavenkos’ inclination to wage war, only he did not pursue a career in the army as was customary in that family. After completing the obligatory youth period of military service, he left the Red Army troops to join the ranks of the mighty KGB. A more in-depth study of the reason that motivated him to break the mold would probably show that it had to do with his tendency toward obesity; being overweight while in the military is not practical. But Yuri more than proved during the Cold War that obesity was never an impediment for him, and a hundred battalions of regular soldiers from the Warsaw Pact were never more dangerous to NATO than one single Yuri Pavenko, that chubby operative with a mixed character (sometimes malicious, sometimes good-natured) whose peculiar voice was as hoarse and harsh as that of a troglodyte.
When Prime Minister Andropov ordered the KGB to neutralize the threat that Ronald Reagan’s Pershing II missiles posed to the Kremlin’s designs, the KGB commanders in the Soviet Union decided to activate a plan cooked up and carried out by their Atomic Fang Division to blow Manhattan off the face of the Earth. Yuri Pavenko was the sleeper agent that Directorate S chose to lead the operation in New York, the only one as far as I knew who was still alive despite the 9mm slugs I’d poked him with during a fierce gun battle in the port of Manhattan.
Of course, I would not learn about this until Mr. Feldman, and his goddamned Moscow Bureau, stuck their noses in the matter.
Patrick Coonan is not the kind of man to enjoy a massage in a Jacuzzi to the fullest. That’s exactly what happened to him on one summer day in 2000 while in Miami, Florida, enjoying the amenities that the Newport Beach Crowne Plaza Resort has to offer. He receives word that the old man (Director Feldman) wants him back. This time, he’s headed to Colombia, alongside his usual partner, Jessica, because some cleanup is required there. In his line of work, being a quick thinker, vigilant, and trusting no one saves lives—especially when Alfred Tilson and Morty Long are involved, with Yuri Pavenko, the man with nine lives, resurfacing once again.
Having read Oscar Ortiz's work before, I feel it's time for me to declare my allegiance. Ortiz has not only rekindled my interest in the spy genre but has also provided me with compelling reasons to root for his protagonist. First, Patrick Coonan, a.k.a. Agent Delta, is such an interesting guy to hang around with. He doesn’t leave his sense of humor at home even during a tense face-off with Yuri Pavenko, the man he almost killed some years back. He keeps his profound love for Jessica in check, with difficulties, of course, doing so because they have a job to finish. Being that the book is told in first person, Patrick does so well explaining stuff. When he zooms in on Jessica, you understand why he can’t rein himself in when with her. Simply put, Patrick possesses all the qualities a man in his profession needs to survive: bravery, charm, and an impressive skill set—enough to make Fleming's James Bond envious.
Jessica, also known as Phi, is seemingly too perfect for Patrick. It's no wonder Patrick declares, "You're the brains; I'm the body." As you might expect from any woman, she wants Patrick’s full attention; she doesn’t want him looking at another woman, especially not in her presence. Moreover, she is confident and even stands up to their boss at one point, expressing her concerns: “I have a bad feeling about the whole setup, Colonel. This mission will turn out to be a disaster.”
One of the things I find impressive about Ortiz is his ability to craft clever and engaging dialogue. Dialogue is meant to reveal more about the characters and their inner emotions, and this is evident in the interactions between Patrick and Jessica, as well as during their interactions with Director Feldman.
In conclusion, I look forward to reading more of Patrick Coonan’s adventures, as I’m sure that spy thriller fans will as well.