The Seattle office sat only a few blocks away. An easy walk. I waited another twenty minutes until the session was ready to wrap. The last for an early council day. I finished my coffee, stuffed a twenty under the cup, and walked out.
Next stop, Jimmy Tripplethorn’s campaign headquarters. I strolled through the humidity. It added a cool bite to the air, but I was happy it wasn’t raining.
CHAPTER FOUR
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.” William Shakespeare
I thought about the arguing couple. The server had handled it like a champ. I could have tossed them on their heads, but getting involved wasn’t good for me as an operator. If the couple had become violent toward her, I would have been in the middle of it in a hurry. Can’t abide those attacking someone for doing their job. Then again, maybe she could handle herself in that arena, too. Sometimes I assumed too much.
I wanted to be likable. Strangers loyal to me. But then other strangers would know how dangerous I could be.
In the pros and cons of my line of work, that wasn’t a pro.
To shake off any observers, I headed down the hill and walked parallel to the street where the headquarters was located, taking off my jacket and hat and bundling them under my arm. I came up on the far side of the campaign headquarters and turned back toward City Hall.
A cascade of signs was plastered out front. “Vote Jimmy!” “Tripplethorn. Triple win—you, your community, AND Seattle.” I strolled into the lobby of the twelve-story office building, where more signs directed me to the third floor.
The office building was not a great place for a hit. No access to the street. A staff who buzzed with activity but not a lot of people. It was too high-profile, funneled through a single entrance, unless there was something hidden in the back, opening to a service corridor. That would swing the needle in my favor.
This would be my only visit.
The workers were motivated to help. I strolled in, trying not to gawk at the riot of red, white, and blue.
“Are you here to volunteer?” a perky college kid asked while trying to affix a button to my shirt pocket. I let him have his way with my clothing while I peered past him. The arrival and main area looked to be a cross between a warehouse and a call center. In the back, a number of office doors were closed, all with their lights on.
“No, but how can I help Jimmy without volunteering?” I smiled from under my 12th Man hat, trying to appear to be a believer.
“Spread the word! Put a sign in your yard, signs in your windows, a bumper sticker on your car, wear your pin, and share, share, share!”
“I should have figured. I don’t have a yard, but I do have a car. Can I get all the stuff here?”
He led me to a side wall that looked like the bargain section in a dollar shop. I took a variety of display materials, just one of each.
“How about something for less well-represented communities?” He led me toward the back without waiting for a reply.
More bins held more materials. Pink and rainbow prevailed. I took one of each to cover all my bases.
“You’re the best, wild man. Thank you.” Likable. He probably saw me as an old man. I should have punctuated my exuberance with “Groovy.”
“Jimmy is the best! That’s why we’re all here, to support our future mayor by doing our part!”
I smiled at him and started to walk out, but hesitated when I reached the front door. “Do you mind if I watch how you guys work with the public? I don’t want to be clumsy with my message. I’m sure you are old hands at this.”
“We are motivated to win!” my escort blurted with the greatest enthusiasm. “You can sit over here and listen to our message volunteers as they carry the word to future fans and followers.”
“All the way to the White House?” I asked in a low voice. My escort beamed but put a finger over his lips.
“Wouldn’t that be magnificent?” he whispered, shielding his mouth to conceal his glee. I nodded, sealing our conspiracy.
He gestured to an open table, where I grabbed a chair and dragged some of Tripplethorn’s literature over to me. On the table were haphazardly tossed copies of the councilman’s schedule for the week. I swept one into my stack of reading material.
I turned my focus to the operators making their calls.
“Join us…”
“Be on the right side of history…”
“Show how much you care about Seattle…”
“Be a winner…”
Emotional engagement charging the atmosphere. Rarely did the volunteer get asked a policy question, but when it happened, they had lists of prepared answers for everything from healthcare to stop signs. The volunteer would thumb through and read the wording to deliver it exactly as intended.
I wondered who shaped the words, Kicker, or a psychologist to elicit the most positive response from the listener? How about one of the civil affairs types, the kind I had met in the Corps running around the desert and creating chaos? I understood what they were trying to do, but they missed the target too often to unleash them on a hostile population. The officers, “zeros” as we called them, kept civil affairs behind the lines.
The fault was strategic, not tactical. We employed them too late. They sucked at damage control. The few places where they went in first worked much better. In those villages, we didn’t have to drop the hammer. Civil affairs got people to go along with authority. If done right, the locals bought into it. If done wrong, they fought back.
Most likely folks from PsyOps. Psychological Operations. No doubt they were well-suited for political campaigns, although no politician would admit to using PsyOps. Poli-Sci. Should be Poli-Psy…
When detached from the warfighters, they were little more than a propaganda machine. Just like a campaign office.
Welcome to the binary world of today, where people are forced to be with us or against us. Be a winner, vote for Jimmy. The enthusiasm and joy the callers showed while delivering the message were persuasive in their own right.
It made my skin crawl. I hadn’t bothered to look at the candidate’s platform because it didn’t mean anything to me. Just words. Actions mattered more.
A commotion near the front. The volunteers reacted by jumping to their feet and cheering. I stood to see what was going on. In the flesh, Jimmy Tripplethorn. All smiles and waves.
The volunteers started clapping. I joined them with a sedate golf clap, trying not to stand out. Kicker wove through the crowd, pressing the flesh with the volunteers, greeting them by name. He rolled down the phone lines before noticing me.
“A new volunteer?” He thrust his hand out. “Call me Jimmy.”
I was older than most everyone else in the office except for two octogenarians handling the elderly calls. “Not a volunteer.” I took his hand and gripped it firmly, enough to let him know he wouldn’t establish handshake dominance. He smiled as he let go. “But here to see how I can do my part for Mayor Jimmy Tripplethorn.”
I saw someone lift a personal phone. I moved sideways to turn my back to the camera.
“From your mouth to God’s ears. But I’m here to serve the people. It’s not about me, but Seattle and the good folk living in this district. What’s your name, friend?”
“Randy Bagger.” I’d never used the name before, and I wouldn’t again. Jimmy moved on. Two of the office doors opened, and executives stepped into the open area. One man. One woman. The campaign managers.
Kicker entered an office in the back, with the two executives following. They closed the door behind themselves. I picked up my bumper stickers, signs, schedule, and buttons and stuffed them into a Tripplethorn bag—fully biodegradable, of course—and headed for the front door. I looked straight ahead, avoiding making eye contact with any of the staff.
I needed no pictures of me with Jimmy Tripplethorn. If there had been training on being an operator, it would have had a strict rule against being seen with the target as part of the main directive of never ma
king contact with the target. Am I comfortable killing someone I don’t know? I had laughed off the question, but not anymore. Killing a person took a certain sense of distance that I had never crossed before. I had never killed someone I knew. This would be a first.
I had shaken the man’s hand.
It was time to change my perspective.
The campaign headquarters was a far softer target than City Hall. I couldn’t make the hit at City Hall. It was too well guarded, too hard to get in and get out without more time to look for weaknesses. But Tripplethorn wasn’t important enough to rate private security, not yet, but any day now. That made him vulnerable almost everywhere else for the time being.
Time to get a little deeper into Candidate Tripplethorn.
I looked for the door to the service corridor. It was located next to the stairs, and I pulled the handle. I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t locked. Shrugging in confusion in case a camera captured me, I continued through the door and down a narrow corridor to the back of the building. I took a left where the corridor accessed a back door for each of the offices.
A cleaning man was there. He barely looked my way. Two doors were labeled for the campaign headquarters. When I reached the old man, I stopped.
“I was looking for the stairs. They seemed much easier to find before.” I held out my hands. He looked at the bag dangling from my fingers.
With raised eyebrows, he studied my features.
“You’re not a fan of Jimmy Tripplethorn. Can you tell me why? I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bah!” He threw his hand as if telling me to go away, but his ire wasn’t directed at me. “Any kind of cult like his tells me all I need to know. Squeaky clean. Bah! I’ve lived here a long time, worked right here for all of it. Politicians come and go, but I have never met a clean one.”
I leaned close and covered my mouth with a hand. “What do you think he’s up to?”
“No good!” the man declared, smiling with pride at his answer. He turned back to the trash he’d collected, preparing to haul it away on a small cart.
“Too true,” I agreed ambiguously. “Do you clean these offices?”
He nodded while continuing tying up the bags.
“After hours sexcapades?”
“Don’t I know it! I start early, and you should see the stuff left in those offices.”
“Jimmy’s, too?”
He shook his head. “He’s too smart to be caught with that.” The old man tapped his nose with a finger. “Up to no good, I tell you.”
I tapped my nose in reply and waved before turning and walking away.
He hadn’t told me anything but had confirmed what I was seeing. Could kick me in the Jimmy Tripplethorn be clean?
Then who wanted him dead? Was there a crime element that feared for their existence? More questions.
In the stairway, I checked for cameras and how the doors secured. Alternate access points, possible escape routes. On the ground floor, the stairs continued to a lower level, but I headed out, looking away from the lobby camera by scratching my face and yawning. I left the building because my work there was done.
Across the street and one building closer to City Hall, a café sported a second-floor terrace. I went in, intending to spend time there, waiting and watching, learning the comings and goings of those who worked in the building where the campaign headquarters was located.
It was barely one in the afternoon. I had missed most of the lunch stampede.
A delivery driver pulled into a loading/unloading only spot in front of the office building across the street. He tapped on his phone. Two minutes later, my ebullient guide from the campaign office appeared with two of the telespammers. They loaded up with bags and boxes, staggering under the load on their way back into the building.
An alternate approach for getting something inside or creating a diversion. So many options for an opportunist like myself.
A plan was starting to form.
I had clothes to buy and one more pass to make through Jimmy’s neighborhood.
I had already eaten too many times that day but ordered anyway to secure my seat on the terrace overlooking the building with the campaign headquarters inside. I pulled the schedule out of the bag. He was a busy man, and thanks to the campaign, they had every hour for the next week planned out. I wondered when they would have the schedule for the following week ready.
Did I risk going back in, or did I move my schedule up? Nothing said I had to take the full two weeks to execute the contract. I decided going back into the campaign headquarters carried too much risk.
Flashing at me like neon lights was today’s schedule. Starting at six tonight, Tripplethorn had an evening of meetings at the district campaign headquarters. I needed to be there to scope out his arrival and departure. He had another identical set of meetings on Monday.
Opportunity knocked. Would I answer?
CHAPTER FIVE
“I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light.” Helen Keller
Nothing happened across the street while I watched and waited for my side salad and sparkling water. I felt like I’d seen what I needed, and anything more was wasting time. I ate quickly once my food arrived and left as soon as I paid, hurrying toward the parking garage with my car. I walked with a sense of purpose. It wasn’t how normal people walked. It was how Marines walked when they had something to do. I forced myself to slow down, slouch a little, and look somewhere other than where I was going.
I remained aware of my surroundings while focusing on the way ahead, making eye contact with those near my path to confirm they were not a threat.
Down the hill and into the parking garage. I had to pay at the entrance but hadn’t brought my ticket. I went to the car to get the receipt. The garage was completely full. I returned and paid in cash, earning a few coins in change. I returned to my car with my freshly validated pass.
Getting out of the garage was easy. My phone guided me to a Goodwill less than five minutes away. A spot opened up on the street, and I pulled right in. I looked around suspiciously, never trusting the luck of the world. Karma had a way of causing grief. But lightning did not strike.
I went inside.
Finding my size was easy. Thirty-two was commonly available and dominated a portion of the rack under the sign showing the waist sizes. I thumbed through to pick up the rattiest pair of stained pants I could find, along with a nice pair of skinny jeans because that’s what the majority of the staff in Kicker’s office had been wearing. A pair of long-toe shoes, three button-downs, a sports coat, a pair of workout shorts, and a couple of t-shirts later, I was ready to go. I dropped my bundle on the counter.
The checkout woman went about her business with a clinical detachment that said she didn’t want to be there. The total on all the items came to seventy-five dollars. I counted out four twenties and laid them on the counter. “The rest is a donation for the good work you do.” I scooped up my new wardrobe and left before she could answer.
I chucked everything into the backseat. That was it for clothes shopping. I had my outfits for the next twelve days.
Before pulling out, I spun up Rush’s The Analog Kid and rocked to the opening riff, encouraging me to get into motion. Sing it, Geddy.
I had enough time to get back to the hotel, dump my trash, and get in a workout. It looked like dinner would be much later than I had originally thought. I better give Jenny a call.
“Yes, lover,” she answered in a sultry voice. I had to pull over to look at my phone to make sure I’d called the right number. “Ian, are you there?” Sultry had been quickly replaced by panic.
“I am. You gave me heart palpitations, and I had to pull over.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“Makes me wish I didn’t have a late meeting that just got called. I have the afternoon off and am on my way to the hotel to squeeze in a workout before I have to get back.”
“You won’t be able to s
ee me tonight?” She sounded sad. The extremes of a potential relationship. So many stories she was telling herself. “I was too fast, wasn’t I?”
I smiled. “Are you kidding me? I can’t wait to see you. I only wanted to tell you that I can bring dinner but expect it might be closer to ten. Can you wait that long, or do you need me to send something earlier?”
I thought I heard a sob. I had no idea what was going on.
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for you,” she managed to say. I had to look at my phone again. I don’t know why that surprised me. I knew how the game was played, how to be kind by listening and asking questions. That the self-conscious were the most emotionally vulnerable.
But this wasn’t a game. I didn’t make love to a woman I didn’t care about. I needed that more than the physical act and the intellectual engagement to trigger the emotions. I needed the whole package. I’d found it hiding behind the sparkle in Jenny’s magnificent eyes. I lived the dichotomy of an operator’s life. I wasn’t supposed to care about people, but I did. That gave me solace in doing what I had to do.
“The sun came out today to shine on your beauty.” It sounded much cooler in my head. “Corny, I know. Sorry. I’ll call when I’m on my way tonight. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
“I can meet you at the hotel. I’m only fifteen minutes away.”
“For a workout in the workout room!” I clarified. I had a couple hours, but I needed to continue my research into Kicker and his wife, despite a growing desire to make my life worth living.
I could take my computer with me for my impromptu stakeout, but that was a tradeoff, and I couldn’t make tradeoffs. No. It had to be an early night. Sleep and then research. I could go with four hours. That would work.
It begged the question, how much energy did she have?
I had work to do. The sort that ended in death, either my target’s or mine.
The compartment in my mind Jenny Lawless had wandered into remained open. I tried to contemplate what the next twelve days would bring, but it was a fog in which much remained hidden.
The Operator Page 4
