Son, I was a human nonentity for the NIA.

     The National Intelligence Agency was a real hush-hush outfit.  I was not allowed to tell my mother, my wife, or my cousin’s mother-in-law about it. They set me up with a humdrum department of the federal government.  I was assigned a desk on the third floor of the new Federal Administration Annex, where nobody asked me silly questions.

     Do you want to know what I looked like in those days?  The NIA preferred nondescript types.  Boy, I could stand right in front of you and you would not be able to guess my age, height, weight, or the color of my hair.

     The undercover nature of the NIA was mild, however, compared to the secrecy of the V-Group.  It is only now, twenty years afterward, that I am allowed to tell even you, my own son, what happened.  Even so I have to change all the numbers, names, dates, and places.

     You undoubtedly have never heard of the V Group. A Level One Security Task Force is known only to its members.  When they assigned me to the V Group I became Baker—not John Baker and not Baker Jones, just Baker—and I did not sell cookies.  I’ll never forget my first meeting…..

     At the appointed time I opened a door and entered a long rectangular room.  A round table and four padded chairs were in front of me.  Beyond this was an expanse of gray carpet surrounded by windowless walls.

     A man of about my age sat in one of the chairs.  He looked familiar; his anonymity reminded my of myself.  He was another typical NIA agent.

     The man nodded to me.  I sat down but didn’t dare say anything for fear of violating Level 1 Security.  I did not even know, after all, if the other man was a member.  Dead silence prevailed.

     An older man in a dull green suit entered, pushing a small dolly.  After locking us in with a heavy-duty security bolt he came forward.  He reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a notebook, and seemed to check me.  He snapped the book shut and nodded. 

     “Excellent. You will be ‘Agent Baker’.”  He indicated the other man as he sat down.  “He is Agent Able.  I am the director of the V Group.  You refer to me as ‘Zebra’.”

     On my left, in the empty half of the room, yellow smoke swirled out of nowhere.  A ghostlike figure at least seven feet tall stood in the center of the small cloud.  He (her? It?) wore a black robe with a hood that obscured the face.  In a shower of multicolored sparks, the vapors dissipated. 

     I sat bolt upright like a chipmunk on a stump.  In this intelligence business you see many strange things, and you learn to keep your mouth shut.  Zebra looked up and nodded as if in satisfaction.  Agent Able merely lifted his eyebrows.  The newcomer glided forward and sat in the remaining chair.  A slender hand emerged from the folds of black cloth.  Bony fingers drew back the hood.  I cringed at the sight of the pasty face, red eye sockets and upper fangs. 

     A vampire!  That’s it.  “V” is for Vampire!

     The being turned to me and extended his hand.  In a soft voice he said, “I am Morg.”

     I managed a pathetic smile and grasped what felt like a turkey’s foot.  I did not say a word for fear of violating Level 1 Security.

     Morg turned next to Agent Able and shook his hand, then turned to the front and held his hand out to Zebra.

     Zebra accepted the brief handshake. 

     “Thank you for coming, Morg.”  He lifted a satchel from the cart, opened it, and turned it upside down over the middle of the table.  A conglomeration of photographs, documents, coins, keys and other items fell out in a disorganized heap.  He set the empty handbag back on the cart.

     “Jamal Koloska, the Premier of Bolgestan, was abducted from his hotel room while vacationing incognito in Florida.  The NIA has been accused of the deed.  The matter must be quickly cleared up for the sake of American international relationships.  The man’s absence was discovered about three hours after the kidnapping.  The area was sealed off by the FBI.  The NIA has temporary custody of the man’s belongings and anything else in the room that was not standard hotel furnishings.”  With a wave of his hand Zebra indicated the pile of items on the table. “Here also are pertinent photographs and testimonies of people coming and going or unusual noises in the vicinity.”

     Morg leaped forward and his long fingers spread the clutter on the table around like a cock spreads frosting on a cake.  He raised both arms forward and pointed his fingers down.  His black eyes gleamed like giant star sapphires. 

     Yellow steam appeared out of nowhere and infiltrated into the materials on the table.  A faint crackling noise could be heard.  I looked at my companions, but as before they watched the phenomenon with no apparent concern.  The requirement of Level 1 Security for this meeting was a laugh.  If I tried to tell anyone about it they would ship me to the funny farm.

     After an interminable forty seconds, Morg lowered his arms.  The yellow cloud vanished in a shower of flickering sparks.

     “The kidnapping is the work of M’Gantar,” said Morg in his low soft voice.  “They are a subversive group that has been in operation for six months.  Their headquarters is in an armed stronghold in the Gobi desert.  The Premier is likely to be being kept there.”

     “Hmmm,” said Zebra.  “Perhaps they plan several more terrorist acts.  All for the purpose of discrediting the NIA.  Can you tell us more about them?”

     “We estimate that they have a membership of one hundred or more.  Their movements appear to be carefully planned, as in the present case.  We conclude that they are disciplined, intelligent and extremely dangerous.”

     The fact that all this news was being delivered by a vampire paled to insignificance beside the import of the information itself.  The job was too big for our little group.  Perhaps we could declare war on Mongolia or China and send the Air Force to the location with some nice big bombs.  Zebra did not appear much concerned.

     “This is a straightforward job for the V Group.  We’ll send an agent to rescue the man and obtain whatever information is available.”

     We’ll send a man?  Why, of course—how stupid of me to think otherwise.

     That one man would only have to infiltrate into China (or Siberia?) and trek for days across impassable desert.  If he did not die of thirst or get shot by bandits he could find the stronghold, surprise the guards and other armed personnel, and rescue their prisoner.  Then he would persuade the mastermind to let us all have the information on future subversive activities.  It was a piece of cake.  The V Group would send one man.  One man?  Anyone who volunteered for such a suicidal mission would have to be such an idiot he’d be disqualified.

     I felt two pairs of human eyes and a pair of big black alien ones focus in my direction.

     “I volunteer,” said a voice.  It seemed to have come from my direction.

     It sounded like my voice.

     Zebra was still looking at me.  “Your enthusiasm is commendable,” said Agent Able.  Zebra turned to Morg.

     “Agent Able will be our man.”

     Turning to me, he said, “This is your first V Group meeting.  It is enough for you to observe our proceedings.”

     Morg and Agent Able both stood up and proceeded to the vacant part of the room.  Able looked a bit concerned.  I wondered if his real name was Clark Kent.  The glittering mist that had brought in Morg now spewed forth again and enveloped the pair.  A minute later, Zebra and I were alone in the room.  All that remained of the others was scattered dust motes.  Relief and disappointment fought for dominance of my thoughts.

     Zebra bent over and began gathering the things on the table back into the briefcase.

     “Morg will transport Agent Able to the location of the M’Gantar stronghold and bring him back when the mission is completed,” he said.

     I asked, “Is he a vampire?”

     “Not so far as we know.  They call themselves the Vampori, a race which broke away from normal humanity thirty thousand years ago.  They live in secret enclaves in Austria and Hungary.  Their appearance has undoubtedly given rise to the vampiric legends.”

     “It’s amazing how he appeared out of nowhere.”

     “Their science has evolved along different lines.  Thirteen years ago they offered the NIA indirect aid in the interest of world peace.  They only require that their existence not be revealed.”

     I recalled the remarks the other agent had made before he was chosen for the mission. 

     “Agent Able seemed unsure of himself.”

     Zebra chuckled as he loaded the briefcase back onto the dolly.  “He’s a perfectionist.  If he doesn’t accomplish his mission according to his precepts it’s a failure in his eyes.”

     “He mentioned ‘botching’ his last mission.”

     Zebra nodded his head.  “Ah, yes.  That was a year ago.  Perhaps you remember the rescue of Senator Worrel and the other twenty-two hostages aboard the hijacked airliner in Puerto Rico.  It was the work of Agent Able.  He entered the plane, freed the hostages, and captured the hijackers.”

     “But that was nothing short of miraculous.”

     Zebra shook his head.  “He’s a perfectionist.  In the scuffle, he broke the ringleader’s arm.  He wanted to resign.”

     “I can see the headlines now,” I said as we headed to the exit.  “Murder of the Ambassador Solved, Worldwide Sedition Plot Exposed. M’Gantar Stronghold Destroyed.”

     Zebra hesitated before opening the door.  “Yes, but he’ll give one of them a bloody nose, and we’ll have to send him to a psychiatrist to restore his self-confidence.”  He turned at the doorknob, but hesitated.  “I expect you’re disappointed at not being assigned the mission, but you’ll get your chance.”

     Several months later we had another meeting of the V Group.  Agent Able did not attend.  The M’Gantar mission had been successful, but he had injured one of the thugs and was still in intensive psychotherapy.  The new Agent Charlie squirmed as the Vampori did his thing.

     I got the next job, too, but that, Son, is another story.