by Cap Daniels
He deposited me at what he referred to as my table, where I found a wonderfully welcome surprise. Sitting around the table with open-collared shirts and dinner jackets were Beater, Tuner, and Dr. “Rocket” Richter. The trio wasted no time greeting me with boisterous enthusiasm and handshakes.
Dr. Richter clasped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “I’m proud of you.”
I almost let a tear escape the corner of my eye. “Thank you, Coach.”
“We’ve been hearing all about your exploits at The Ranch and on your field trips. It sounds as if you’ve already made quite an impression on the decision makers. I never had any doubts,” said Dr. Richter.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply offered a polite, “Thank you,” and took a long sip of the scotch that had magically appeared in front of me.
I hadn’t seen those guys for over a year, and for some reason, they felt like family to me since I no longer had a family of my own. It was good to see them.
“Where’s Ace? It’s not a party without him,” I said.
The table fell silent until Tuner, the quiet one, said, “Ace passed away about six months ago. It was the big C. Cancer gets all of us if we live long enough.”
Again, I found myself battling to keep a tear from escaping my eye, but I managed to raise my glass and choke out a toast.
“Here’s to Ace. Let’s hope he’s not trying to shoot down any angels if they actually let him into Heaven.”
“Here! Here!” came the approving replies.
We drank, ate, laughed, and shared stories—some true, and some a little more creative.
“So, Chase, what’ve they had you doing since you finished up at The Ranch?”
I’d learned a great deal about operational security and the importance of keeping information limited to the need-to-know crowd, but I figured there wasn’t anything classified about a horse race, so I told my story. “Well, you’ll never believe it, but I’ve been at the Belmont Stakes for the past couple of days, protecting the fourth-place finisher.”
“Protecting the fourth-place finisher sure sounds exciting. Did you get to shoot anybody?” asked Beater.
My old friends laughed.
“Go ahead, laugh it up guys. It’s a long story, and in fact, I almost got to shoot a guy who wanted to kill Dutch. Speaking of Dutch, where is he?”
“Dutch doesn’t exist,” Dr. Richter said. “He’s a ghost. You may never see him again, or he may show up in your suitcase when you least expect it. He’s a brilliant operator when he wants to be, but I think he’s in it for the money now, and that’s a shame.”
A rumble of agreement came from around the table.
I’d learned from seasoned operators at The Ranch that the mindset of security and black ops had changed dramatically over the past few decades. When Dr. Richter, Ace, and the guys were hard-core operators during the Cold War, they did it for the love of freedom and to beat back the spread of communism. Since the Berlin Wall had come down and most of Russia was, at least by outside appearances, democratic, the need to keep communism at bay had been depleted. The world faced new threats from tyrants in the Middle East and the like. The new operators referred to the Cold War Era operators as dinosaurs. I suppose the respect that I had for the guys, Dr. Richter in particular, kept me from dismissing their attitudes and opinions as antiquated. I knew those guys still had so much to teach me about the basic tradecraft of covert operations. I would never be a military Special Forces operator, so I would never have the benefit of attending most of the military schools. I would spend my life as a civilian covert operative, and as such, I would have to learn everything I could from every source I could find. I couldn’t imagine a better source than the guys who’d seen and done it all.
Dinner was perhaps the best meal I’d ever eaten. The courses kept coming and the drinks kept flowing. I listened to old stories about Ace and the antics of the foursome through the years.
“Why don’t we find somewhere in this fancy place to fire up a few good cigars before it’s past our bedtime?” asked Beater.
“Great idea,” said Dr. Richter.
In his typical style, Tuner just nodded his agreement. I was coming to appreciate how he just listened when the rest of the world seemed to be producing more noise by the minute.
We found a cigar-friendly bar where Dr. Richter produced four fine Cuban Cohibas. He offered me his punch, but I proudly refused and produced my very own Xikar punch and lighter.
“Indeed,” Dr. Richter said.
We spent the next hour enjoying the embargo cigars and a bottle of, what I learned was, very good brandy.
I began to feel the effects of the alcohol and the cigar, and I placed my hand on Dr. Richter’s shoulder. “I need to talk with you. I have some things I want to tell you, and I need your advice.”
He looked at me, then at his Vostок Komandirskie wristwatch, then back at me. “Not here,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
It occurred to me in the elevator that I didn’t know which room was mine. I remembered the desk man saying that my suite was ready, but he hadn’t given me a key. The realization of my oversight made me feel like a jackass, but fortunately, Dr. Richter solved my dilemma by saying, “Our rooms are in the same suite, so we can talk in yours while Tuner listens to Beater snore next door.”
I followed him to our suite that looked more like a palace than a hotel room. I was amazed and overwhelmed. I’d spent the last year of my life sleeping on a surplus army cot when I was lucky. On most nights, I got no sleep at all.
As we stepped into my room, Dr. Richter motioned for me to join him on the balcony overlooking Central Park. The view was breathtaking, and the spring night air was crisp. We made ourselves comfortable, and he poured two glasses of scotch.
“Don’t get too used to this, Chase. Nights like this in places like this are rare. Treasure them. They’ll make the nights that you spend in cold, dark, wet holes more bearable. You’ve learned a lot and proved a lot in the last several months, but you still have a great deal to learn. Most of that can’t be taught; it can only be experienced. Half of all new operators are killed in the first eighteen months out of The Ranch. Most of those who survive the first year and a half lose their minds or stomachs for this work and either kill themselves, walk away, or end up getting caught and going to prison in some God-forsaken corner of the world. The few who remain go on to make a real difference in the world and make a good living at this. Then, there’s that one in a thousand who lives long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labor. I believe you’re that one, Chase. You’re something special. You’re your father made over, only better, smarter, stronger, and with one advantage over him: you’re alone. You don’t have a wife and two kids to watch over, even if that wife was an operator, too. You see, when a man is burdened with the responsibility of a family, this job is doubly hard. He worries every second that his children or wife are going to end up in the hands of someone who wants him to suffer, and that suffering will come through the torture of his family. A man doesn’t need that level of stress. You’re free to pour yourself into your work without worrying about somebody feeding your little girl to a wood chipper somewhere. You have a huge leg up over your father. You’re going to do great things, Chase Fulton.”
I gave his speech some careful, cautious thought. I’d never thought about how my father must’ve felt every time he left us home—wherever home happened to be at the time—to go out and do whatever it was he did. It must’ve terrified him to think that we could be vulnerable. What a hell that must’ve been.
“I know this probably sounds juvenile, but I don’t have anywhere to live, Coach. I don’t have any money or any idea what’s going to happen next. They taught me how to kill and disappear, but they left out the part about how to live life from day to day between the killing and disappearing. So, what do I do? Am I just supposed to stay here in this place and wait for the phone to ring?”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “You don
’t really think we’d spend all of that money and time on you and then throw you out on the street, do you? That’s not how this works. You’re going to be very well cared for. In fact, I have some things for you.”
He left the balcony and returned a moment later with an aluminum, locking briefcase. He placed the case on my lap and returned to his chair, reclaiming his scotch. I pressed the releases on the latches, but nothing happened. There was a small set of combination locks for each latch.
He answered before I could ask. “It’s the first three and the last three digits of the serial number on your pistol.”
I had, of course, memorized the serial number, so I entered the numbers and felt the latches spring open.
I’d given up trying to guess what was behind door number three a long time before then, so I had no preconceived notions of what was inside the briefcase. The contents turned out to be Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. Inside, I found four identities for myself. Each included a well-worn passport, driver’s license, credit cards, and a brief history, called a legend, of each identity. I’d been taught that I would have to become someone else on a regular basis, and to do so, I would have to fully immerse myself into the history and identity of each character. I discovered that, with the contents of the briefcase, I could be a Canadian, Australian, German, or Italian. In addition to the four identities, I found a badge and credentials identifying me as a supervisory special agent with the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms. I held up the ATF credentials.
“My boy,” Dr. Richter said, “I know enough about you to know that you’re going to occasionally get yourself into trouble that even you won’t be able to talk your way out of, so those credentials will keep you out of jail when your wit won’t. They’ll also unlock a lot of doors and put inquisitive local cops at ease when you turn up snooping around where civilians shouldn’t. You have to remember, though, to never, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be fingerprinted. We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that you don’t exist. When you get caught, and you will get caught, ensure that whoever catches you calls the number at the ATF inside that wallet before processing you. The person who answers the phone will get you out of the mess you created, but he or she will demand some answers from you about why you let yourself get caught. So keep your head on straight. And for God’s sake, don’t store the identities together. Understand?”
The potential scenarios poured through my head like Niagara Falls. “I understand.”
“Keep digging,” said Dr. Richter.
I laid the previously discovered contents of the briefcase on the table between us and pulled at the corners of the lining of the case. It gave way, revealing another compartment that held a satellite phone, two more pistols, and a pair of credit cards—one with my real name and one with my Canadian alias.
Dr. Richter continued his lesson. “When you’re paid, you’ll be paid into an offshore numbered account. Both of those cards are drawn on that account. That’s how you’ll live. Keep plenty of cash on hand. Cash is a tool. You’ll learn that it’s often more powerful than a bullet. Wherever you live, keep a high quality safe, and never have less than a hundred thousand in cash in that safe.”
“A hundred thousand dollars! Where am I going to get a hundred thousand dollars in cash?”
“We’ll give you all the tools you need, my boy. Where do you want to live for now?”
I’d matured a great deal since Rocket Richter flew me to the barrier islands off the Georgia coast, but I was still amazed when he asked questions like that.
All I could put together was, “I want to live someplace warm. I hate the cold.”
He smirked. “When you get to Miami, go see David Shepherd at the Federal National Bank. Here’s his card. He’ll see that you have whatever you need down there. He’s expecting you.”
“David Shepherd? Really? That’s a little too biblical, don’t you think?”
He lifted his glass. “We’re doing God’s work, my boy. So, what did you want to talk about? You said you need my advice.”
I so badly wanted to know what I should do about the sniper. I wanted to tell him how I couldn’t get her out of my mind. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “I think you answered all of my questions.”
13
The Good Shepherd
Two thoughts consumed my mind on the drive to Miami. The first was how much I loved my new car. If they never paid me another penny, at that moment, the car was enough. The second thought was a little heavier. I could not get the sniper out of my head. I had to know who she was. I’d spent four years at the University of Georgia where there was certainly not a shortage of beautiful girls, but none of them ever captured my attention the way the sniper had. Being a psychologist, I couldn’t stop overanalyzing why she was so fascinating to me. Part of it had to be rooted in her capabilities. I’d watched her do everything right, from the position she was in behind the rifle, to how she controlled her breathing during the shot, or non-shot. It may have been the way she moved so gracefully, so catlike. Of course, there had to be an element of physical attraction in addition to the fascination I had for her skill. She was, after all, practically perfect physically.
In the few moments that my thoughts weren’t solidly on her, I wondered how many others there were like me. I’d met other operators while I was in training at The Ranch and on my field trips, but I had no idea how vast the network was. It also occurred to me that I really didn’t know who I worked for. The more I thought about that, the more I realized it really didn’t matter. Most young college graduates would kill for an opportunity to work for any major company and make ten percent of the money I would make. I actually laughed at the thought of my classmates being willing to kill. Not only was I willing, but I was also well trained, heavily equipped and financed, and even poised to do exactly that—kill. I wondered how many of my assignments would include the necessity of taking the life of another human. I remember thinking that I could guard racehorses for the next twenty years and retire quite comfortably, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
* * *
When I arrived at the bank in Miami, I asked to see Mr. David Shepherd and laughed to myself at that unfortunate name. I was immediately ushered into his office and told, “Mr. Shepherd is expecting you, and he’ll be right in.”
I sat down and glanced around the office just as I’d been taught. I spotted a letter opener that would’ve made a very nice weapon. Resting atop David’s modest desk was a glass paperweight with a scorpion encased within its hemispheric dome. That would serve nicely as a blunt weapon, but something else caught my attention: a baseball bat poised in a decorative mount on the wall with Hank Aaron’s signature emblazoned across the barrel. That made me smile. Not only would the bat make a wonderful weapon, but it was also an impressive piece of baseball history, and for that, I had great respect.
There’s an old adage in the special operations community that says, “Be nice, professional, and courteous, but have a plan to kill everyone in the room.” I didn’t fear that Mr. Shepherd would be a threat, but I did find myself analyzing my situation in his small office. There was only one exit that didn’t involve breaking some relatively thick glass. Perhaps worse than that was the fact that there was no place in the office where I could sit that would give me the advantage of seeing him before he saw me. I didn’t like that at all. Instead of surrendering to my disadvantage, I chose to eliminate the office from the equation by stepping outside the door and seeking out a water fountain. I spotted the fountain and spent considerable time pretending to drink from it while glancing beneath my arm to identify Mr. Shepherd before he identified me.
I was wearing jeans, an untucked t-shirt, an Atlanta Braves cap, and running shoes. I certainly didn’t look the part of anyone who would be awaiting the arrival of the vice president of anything, let alone a bank, so I thought I might be able to hide in plain sight, but I was wrong.
As I arose from my final make-believe sip of water
, a hand landed on my shoulder.
The booming voice of David Shepherd filled the air. “Mr. Fulton! I’ve been expecting you. I’m glad you made it. Let’s step inside my office, and we’ll take care of you.”
He was not the diminutive, Jewish banker I’d anticipated. He was enormous and towered over my greater than six-foot frame by several inches. His hands looked like dinner plates with fingers. I decided that the letter opener and paper weight were useless against him. Honestly, I didn’t have much faith in my chances with the bat either. I just hoped he was one of the good guys.
He folded himself behind his desk. “I’d offer you something to drink, but you pretended to drink a gallon of water from the fountain while watching for me, so we’ll forego that formality. I’m David Shepherd, and so there’s no confusion, I know exactly who and what you are. We’re on the same team. See?” He pointed toward Hank Aaron’s bat. “I’m a Braves fan, too.”
“It’s nice to know I’m not alone.” My level of discomfort must’ve been apparent.
“Relax, Chase. You’re among friends. This bank, and almost everyone in it, work for the same people you do. Most of us have been through The Ranch and even spent some time in the field. Where you’re the operations branch, we’re the financial branch. It’s my job to see that you have what you need to do your job. I know all of this is a little overwhelming, just like everything else in your life for the last year or so, but I promise you’ll soon begin to see all of this as normal . . . and that should scare the hell out of you.”
I had to ask, “Why should that scare me, Mr. Shepherd?”
He opened one of his desk drawers and produced a bottle and two highball glasses. He poured each of us a drink, slid one to me, and offered up a toast. “Here’s to knowing when to be afraid.”
I touched the rim of my glass to his.
“Fear is an interesting thing,” he said. “You see, men can grow accustomed to almost anything when exposed to it long enough. If you put a man in a pot of water and raise the heat slowly, you can boil his blood before he realizes he’s dying. The trick, young Chase, is to never get too comfortable in anyone else’s pot. Do you know what I mean?”
