The Operator

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by Craig Martelle


  I closed that door on the evening. Being able to think in one channel without being distracted by what was going on elsewhere was unique, or so I’d been told. Block out the stuff that didn’t matter when thinking about that which did. I didn’t know any other way.

  I wasn’t big on distractions when it came to thought processes. I changed thought compartments.

  I tapped the screen to call the previous number dialed on my phone. She answered on the first ring.

  “A gentleman who keeps his word?”

  “Honorable is what I go for.”

  She laughed with an angel’s voice. “I thought about it and realized I spent two hours telling you my life’s story, but I don’t know anything about you, Mister Ian Bragg. It’s your turn to tell me a story.”

  Ian Bragg. My operator cover, the name on my identification. It had not yet been compromised. I’d get a new one if it became public with the wrong people. Contrary to popular opinion, getting a new identity was neither easy nor cheap, and was fraught with as much risk as riding an old name.

  “I only have fifteen minutes before I’m back at the hotel, and I need to get some sleep since I have an early day tomorrow. My job is a bit demanding, so I’ll be quick. Let me tell you about my time in the Marines…”

  When I pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, I said goodbye and that I would talk to her tomorrow. I closed that door within my mind and returned my focus to the job, building a portfolio of Jimmy Tripplethorn. I walked through the lot to the front entrance, taking my time to breathe deeply of the heavy, humid air. It smelled clean as if all the sins of a big city had been washed away.

  Unlike Kicker’s sins, for which his wife allowed no forgiveness. Tell me your secrets, Tricia.

  I strolled in, took a hard right to the stairway, and climbed the single flight to my floor. I left the stairwell and headed for my room.

  Jenny was strolling down the hallway wearing the hotel’s bathrobe and carrying a bucket of ice. She stood in front of my door, swiped the card, and stepped inside.

  I hurried after her, pushing through the door to find that it wasn’t my room. It was the one next to mine.

  Time stood still. She looked at me. I held the door halfway open, torn about leaving. I was in between compartments within my mind.

  “You can stay,” she offered, setting the ice bucket down and turning toward me, loosening the robe’s tie and letting it fall open as she walked. Creamy smooth skin. Vibrant. Inviting.

  I caught her halfway and pinned her tightly against the wall to kiss her fiercely. She responded with energy, electricity, a fire deep within. Promised passion.

  Kissing her cheek on the way to her ear, I whispered, “I have a long day tomorrow that starts early. If I stay here, there will be no sleep whatsoever, will there?”

  I traced a finger around her face. Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

  No. Her lips parted, and I heard the word but couldn’t be sure that she had spoken aloud.

  My hand seemed to find its own way inside her robe, gently touching, then down to follow the curve of her bare hip.

  She shrugged off the robe and started unbuttoning my shirt. I backed away until she had me pinned to the other side of the room’s narrow entry. One piece after the other, my clothes fell to the floor.

  “I need sleep,” I reiterated. She smiled and snuggled close to me, naked body pressed hard against mine. I closed the door to Kicker’s world and strolled into Jenny’s, wide-eyed and willing.

  I surrendered to the inevitability. There would be little sleep that night.

  ***

  I managed to make it back to my room before I had to leave for Seattle. I thought of Jenny’s smile one last time before pulling the credit-card-sized multi-tool from my wallet to remove the screws from the light switch panel in the bathroom. I needed the thumb drive to annotate my thoughts regarding the Tripplethorn home. I had to solidify my plan.

  An operator worked alone, starting with almost no information, building a profile, and executing the contract. There were no links to The Peace Archive. Ever. The high pay came with high personal risk. There had been no training. Besides my recruiters, I had never met my contractors.

  I liked working alone, even though it had its limitations.

  I felt like I needed to meet the people who hired me. Could we work our way up? What was their cut of the fee for far less risk? Was that by invite only? There was no employee handbook and no one to ask. That made certain things difficult. So many questions and so little time.

  Morning brought clear skies, but the forecast threatened rain. At the crack of dawn, I threw open the curtains. There she was in the distance, crowning the tops of nearby trees—Mount Rainier. The hotel’s brochure had not lied. It was a nice view.

  I needed to go into the city. Downtown Seattle. Collect information. After a quick shower, I put on my clothes from yesterday. A stop to buy a new wardrobe was in order. Salvation Army definitely and then maybe Kohl’s.

  I was not a slave to the fast-paced world of high fashion. Comfortable clothes that didn’t stand out. What more could a working man want?

  Chuckling to myself at my humor, I locked my computer in the room’s safe and hid the thumb drive. I needed the cleaning crew in my room. Do Not Disturb brought questions and unwanted attention. I could put the sign out in a few days, after establishing that I had nothing to hide.

  I opened my door quietly so as not to wake the neighbors, one in particular. I shut it carefully and hurried to the steps and down.

  Through the well-groomed lobby, where a lone older woman wearing an oversized apron loaded the free breakfast buffet. I checked my watch. Still ten minutes before it was supposed to open. I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and strolled into the small restaurant.

  “We’re not open yet,” the heavy-set woman replied.

  I offered the cash. “A muffin and coffee? I have to hit the road to downtown, beat the traffic. What is it with Seattle commuters?”

  She smiled easily and waved off the cash while gesturing with her head to help myself.

  “Take it.” I kept it in front of her. “We’re all working for a living. You’re doing me a solid, and I appreciate it.”

  She slipped the money into her apron. “Do you want something else, something hot?”

  “Do you have sausage biscuits?” We all have our weaknesses.

  “I’ll bring one out.” She trundled into the kitchen. I fixed my coffee with flavored creamers and snapped the lid tightly onto the recyclable cup. She reappeared with two steaming packages. She showed them to me before dropping them into a bag and handing it over. “You look like you could use some meat on your bones.”

  “I’ll get it if I eat too much of the good stuff.” I bowed my head to her. “See you tomorrow.”

  I strolled to the car, feeling refreshed and sharp despite having only catnaps through the night. That door threatened to open. I pushed it closed, smiling at my last vision of a woman I had just met. Sleeping soundly. Hair messed, but radiant.

  I fired up the tunes and drove away, looking forward to joining a million friends driving into the city.

  Hurry up and wait. I’d eat while stuck in traffic. Wednesday. Only a few workdays left to see the bustle of the daily grind, and most importantly, Tripplethorn’s role in it.

  Six contracts under my belt and they had all been wildly different. Still, I’d agreed the targets needed to die. I wondered if the other operators had my same sense of justice and honor. Marine veterans. I hoped so. It was The Peace Archive’s job to deliver good targets. People who were despicable human beings. For me, Jimmy Tripplethorn would be lucky number seven. I would find the dirt that had so far eluded me. I had no doubt it was there.

  The drivers in the traffic slowdowns looked like they were doing something else, able to drive while applying makeup, singing, gazing at the scenery. Anything and everything. Most were alone. It was the way of the modern world. Very few used the mass transportation many d
emanded. It wasn’t convenient enough. We like our conveniences.

  I listened to Rush’s Marathon , ate my breakfast, and focused on my next steps.

  Collect info until I could test a premise and a backup.

  Simple if it didn’t need to happen in a busy city in front of a perpetual crowd. If it did, I needed to start building that attack plan soon. The hits were easy. Escape was hard. Getting away required all the forethought and planning that could be put into it. “What could go wrong?” was the single most important question in walking through every step of an exit strategy.

  I selected a parking garage five blocks from City Hall. As early as I was, the place was already ninety-percent full. I dutifully followed the others filling space after space. The daily commuters driving mindlessly.

  I swung wide to pull into my spot. Maybe I should have bought a Prius for this gig. It would have looked less out of place than my bigger car that barely fit. I waited for the next slot to fill before squeezing out. I took care not to door-ding my tiny commuter neighbor.

  The other drivers headed toward the many offices in the area, most carrying the specialty brew they’d bought on their way in. I left my cup in the car. I had no desire to advertise the hotel where I was staying. Nothing to connect there with here or here with me.

  I had two hours before the city council’s first meeting of the day. I had that long to learn how the council members got into the building if they weren’t already there.

  I would watch for the red Ford Escape hybrid, but that was a long shot. I knew what to look for, but that didn’t mean I’d see it. The paparazzi didn’t follow him around, so I wouldn’t get instant updates on every single movement like one could with a celebrity target where hashtags followed them through their lives. Politicians didn’t have fans like that. The media had a different agenda when following politicians.

  Media and politicians. They deserved each other, but they weren’t doing their job when it came to Tripplethorn. No one was that clean. Come on, people! Pick up your game, I chided in the safety and comfort of my mind.

  I would never have a press release in my job.

  Exactly how I liked it.

  The misty cool weighed heavily on each commuter as they rushed from the garage toward their day jobs in fantastic office buildings, a sea of shining metal and glass. I pulled my floppy hat tightly over my head before stepping from the shelter of the garage onto the exposed sidewalk.

  Despite being downtown, the air carried the unmistakable scent of the Pacific Northwest. Salt of the ocean splashed across a pine forest. A coffee shop with a healthy clientele. A place to hear the gossip. I joined the line and waited, playing with my phone while paying attention to the conversations around me. Most were inane. A waste of good air.

  But one talked about the council. I moved out of line and browsed the pastry counter to get closer.

  To listen.

  I hemmed and hawed at the choices.

  “Today’s agenda is garbage. They won’t be talking about anything that matters. Tomorrow afternoon! That’s when you’ll see the fireworks.”

  “I think you’ll see plenty of smoke and fire today as they posture for a better position.”

  I already had the city council’s agenda for the next two weeks. What I didn’t have was why there would be fireworks or posturing. The two people moved to a table. I jumped back in line, and the person I had been in front of let me into my previous spot.

  “Mighty nice of you. Much obliged.” I tipped my hat in appreciation while keeping my head ducked to hear the former conversation.

  “I’m in no rush to get chained to my desk,” the older woman behind me offered.

  “Don’t I know that! I think I’ll stay here for a while. The Man can loom a little less today.”

  She nodded with a look that said she’d been there before, as recently as yesterday.

  With my turn, I ordered whatever I would get the quickest. A fresh house special, pre-brewed and filling a hot pot sitting on the counter. Black, straight up. Medium. I threw a five on the counter and walked away to snag the table next to the two who had been talking about the council, but their conversation had moved on to youth soccer. They left before saying anything else that interested me.

  I twiddled my phone absentmindedly while sitting at a table for two. I sipped my coffee sparingly, frequently looking outside. People filling the area until it threatened to burst, no one leaving. The big city at the beginning of a regular workday. The viability of a hit during the transit was shaky. Too many people.

  Right amount for surveillance. Easier to hide in a crowd.

  I listened and watched while taking care to look unobtrusive. The coffee shop cleared out quickly as the hands on the clock crawled toward the official start of paid time. I filed out after them and followed a mob of desk jockeys up the street, walking toward City Hall. All of them peeled off before getting to the big building near the top of the hill. I stopped when my final unknowing compatriot disappeared before getting me there.

  I found a dry spot under an overhang and leaned against the wall, looking for anyone going my way. It took a half-hour before the clouds separated and blue sky peeked through. A small group of men in suits walked by, their expensive shoes click-clacking on the pavement of Capitol Hill. I fell in behind them.

  My business casual wasn’t out of place. I wondered if they were on their way to the courthouse to one side of City Hall, the municipal court behind it, or a big law firm in the tower looming over it all. I didn’t care as long as it got me to City Hall without me walking alone. Make any facial recognition work that much harder if it was in place, despite the privacy regulations forbidding its general use.

  See the lawyers in their natural habitat, armed with the latest legal theory, looking for prey, I thought. They turned toward the courthouse, leaving me by myself. I continued straight past City Hall and looped around the far side to the main entrance where police and other armed security maintained a presence.

  The closest parking garage sat on the uphill side of James Street, less than half a block from Seattle City Hall’s main entrance. I took a closer look. A man in a suit walked out of the garage and almost into me. No surprise since I blocked his way.

  “Excuse me, can anyone park here? I parked way over there and hiked all this way to get to City Hall.” I pointed generally down the hill but not toward where I parked.

  “It’s open for anyone, but you pay for the pleasure of parking close. I had to wait for someone to leave before I could park, and now I fear I’m late, so if you’ll excuse me.” He looked to be in a hurry. I stepped out of his way and uttered an apology.

  I waited for him to round the corner before strolling downhill. The first city council meeting was supposed to start in less than an hour. I decided to watch the building from a coffee shop across the street.

  Within thirty minutes, I had the answer to one of my questions. Five of the nine council members, including Mr. James Tripplethorn, hopped off a bus that stopped in front of City Hall. Maybe they parked somewhere else. Or an offsite meeting? Or alternate offices?

  It begged more questions, which I would find answers to easily through better-tailored searches. Tomorrow I’d be right there, watching to identify routines. I searched quickly to see if the council proceedings were livestreamed. They were. They made no secret of it and encouraged people to watch. But I had no headphones.

  Plenty of small shops around for the locals’ convenience. I strolled casually to one and bought a cheap pair of wired headphones. I didn’t trust having the Bluetooth active on my device, so a physical connection was called for. Next to the checkout counter stood a display with Seattle Seahawks 12th Man baseball caps. I grabbed one of those and a Washington Huskies cap and dropped them on the counter with the headphones.

  I looked for a quiet cafe to listen to the two-hour council meeting. An hour and fifty minutes remained.

  A sidewalk seating area suggested the morning rush had already passe
d and the lunch crowd had not yet arrived. A couple sat at a table. They didn’t look happy.

  Not everyone can be a shining bundle of perpetual joy like me.

  I ordered a fruit platter and another coffee, availing myself of the bathroom inside before it arrived.

  The couple had ratcheted up the volume. They were intruding on my peace. I covered my earbuds with my hands to try to tune them out. The server came by and gave the two a big hairy what for before chasing them away.

  She stopped by my table to apologize.

  I pulled out the earphones. “No need to apologize. I’m sorry you had to do that.” I wanted to ask if I could get her something or wipe a table if she needed to take a break, but that would have made me too memorable.

  She laughed. “That’s okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I do, but on a completely different note. Maybe you know. How can I get an item on the city council’s agenda?”

  “Through their staffs,” she replied, looking around to make sure no new customers had arrived. “You can request a meeting with the councilmember, but unless you’re a donor or a high-powered special interest, they won’t pay attention. All except Jimmy! He is open to the people. He’ll walk down the street and ask us what we think.”

  “He has time for that?” I pressed, looking for insight into his personal engagements and how far beyond personal security lines he would cross.

  “He makes the time. He’s either with the council or in his campaign headquarters. I think he’s going to be the next mayor. That’ll be good for Seattle.”

  Someone has paid a lot of money for a different outcome, I thought. Much cheaper than donating to a political action committee.

  “I think so, too.” I glanced at the livestream. They were still in session and going strong. It was time for both of us to move on.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She bowed gracefully before turning to clear the table of the couple she had kicked out.

  I still hadn’t heard any posturing or fireworks. It all seemed like inane garbage. I continued to listen while using my phone’s browser to find the address of the campaign headquarters. Kicker had an office right here and a second one located in his district to the northeast.

 

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