The Cafe, a short story

There I was, sitting in a dining area enjoying a quiet coffee and sandwich. Think about it, have you ever heard a coffee and sandwich making noise? Talking to each other or anything else? Nah, I've never even heard the eggs complaining about being a-salted by the pepper. Anyway, there I was, minding my own business when I caught part of a conversation a few tables over.

It was two gentlemen, an older man in a suit and a younger man in collared shirt, tie, and sweater. I heard the older man say, “I believe, yes, strongly believe that the NSA can do that.” I have no idea what the context of that statement was. None, whatsoever. Still, I could not resist.

As the older gent was making this NSA statement I got up, coffee in hand, and walked up behind him. Sweater Guy looked up at me curiously. I heavily placed my left hand on Old Guy's right shoulder and leaned down towards his ear. Speaking in an almost whisper, but still loud enough for Sweater Guy to hear me, “Oh, yes, the NSA can, and does, do that. Although, they prefer to use contractors. You know, the boys of Bancroft are a good pick. Blackwater was a great source. Nowadays they use independent contractors so that they have maximum levels of plausible deniability.”

Old Guy stiffened up immediately. I certainly grabbed his attention. Both men studied me curiously and with a tinge of fear. Old Guy stammered a little, “Won't you join us, Sir? You seem to know something of which we are speaking.” He cast a nervous glance at Sweater Guy before looking back at me, and added, “privately.”

As they asked me questions, I was able to formulate believable answers. I also was able to ascertain that they were putting together information on covert collection and covert action.

Covert action is, by basic definition, not to be spoken or heard of EVER. The other aspect of covert action is that this is dirty work that would permanently and irrevocably stain the reputation of anyone involved in the process of it, including the people who authorize or fund it.

“The problem is, gentlemen, prior to the Church White Reports and Carter's gutting of the Human Intelligence network in the 1970's,” Old Guy lit up like a teenager stepping into a strip club, Oh, goodness, he was hooked. Sweater Guy was interested but, since he was from a younger generation and had not the pleasure of living through the damage of those two events did not smell the blood like his older companion did. “Covert action was not even in the newspapers and now it's a common household term.”

“Yes! Yes!” Old Guy was getting excited. I could not then, nor now, explain why. Sweater Guy began asking me more questions. For the next hour we bantered back and forth with details about geographic locations in places as far away as Macedonia, Somaliland, Belarus, the Northern Klondike, you name it.

Finally, the question came up that I could not answer with a clever response. The one single inquiry that I could not dodge any longer. Old Guy had finally, and directly said, “Sir, I must ask who you are, and what you do to have this knowledge.”

For a second I looked into my now empty coffee cup. I had had more than enough coffee for the week, much less the day. Standing up, “I really do have to get going, gentlemen.” Old Guy looked at me like I had just kicked his puppy. “Sir, I am Joseph Dowdy and I write thriller stories. Thank you so much for your time.” I skedaddled as quickly as I could to get away from those two pissed off gents.