“Imagine that,” Daniel said bitterly
He like all of the other PRUCs could relate to what Sheep Dog was saying from their own experience. There was no love lost between The Company and the former PRUCs with the possible exception of Oliver Prentiss, who still worked for them.
Sheep Dog said, “I need to get in touch with Anders Bergstrom. I know him, but I don’t know where he is. All Roger knew was that he lived somewhere up north and played it pretty secret about his life and whereabouts. He was sure you would know how to get in touch with him. And I will also need some help from you and the rest of the PRUCs that you trust.”
“People not like Jean-Luc DuParrier, maybe?”
“Very much not like that one,” Sheep Dog said, “Any idea where he is, Daniel?”
“Nope. I hear he got sent to Nicaragua and then found something nasty to do in the Congo. We don’t send Christmas cards.”
“Will you help me?”
“I will until I learn for a fact that you are the vicious murderer the America’s Most Wanted show says you are, then I’ll even help the fibbies. Swear to me, Hunter, that you aren’t a cop killer.”
“You have my sacred word, Daniel. None of that is true. I did things like we did back in the Phoenix Program, but I am nothing like what they say. I need to disappear—and not to be terminated with maximum prejudice as The Company wants.”
“Like Anders Bergstrom. That still sticks in my craw.”
“Like Anders Bergstrom.”
“Okay, let’s get on the horn. I can fix you up. You know you can’t say anything about what you learn from me.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Let’s get you out of this mess; so, you won’t have to wear that Al Jolsen get-up.”
The call was made, and Bergstrom, or whatever his name was now, agreed to see Sheep Dog.
Sheep Dog already knew that Anders Bergstrom was now known as Steffan Johannson and that he lived in Canada, but not where in Canada before he met with Daniel Perez. He had already made flight reservations to go to Vancouver the next day, and now he knew what the rest of his itinerary had to be. He laboriously cut up the passport and driver’s license that he had used coming back into the United States and spread the shreds around in different waste cans throughout the hotel. He scrubbed off the mahogany darkening of his skin, took off the partial baldness wig, then scratched his itchy scalp until he felt normal again. The next morning, he took out the last of his wigs and noses from his old case and made himself into Hyrum Edgar Poindexter from Port Coquitlam, British Columbia, a CA, who had been in the U.S. to take his International Uniform CPA Qualification Examination [IQEX]. He was good with numbers but nowhere the match of a Certified Accountant. If anyone challenged him, he planned to fake it.
The flight was pleasant; first class is always pleasant; and the arrival in Vancouver uneventful; technically, the International Airport is located on Sea Island in Richmond, British Columbia, about 7.5 miles from from downtown Vancouver. He went straight to the Hertz Rent-a-Car desk and arranged to rent a GMC Terrain SLE-1 All Wheel Drive small SUV. He did not tell the clerk where or how far he was going, nor did he ask for any directions. Those he obtained at a Borders Books store in the airport pre-security area.
It was only ten in the morning; so, he set out directly north on the first leg of his road trip to Quesnel, 396 miles north in the middle of British Columbia. First, he took the TransCanada Highway #1 to Hope, B.C. then connected to Highway #5 and on to the connection to Highway #97, the Caribou Highway—the major north-south route between Vancouver, the Yukon, and Alaska. He took a break at 100 Mile House. There he filled his tank and bought supplies for a picnic lunch in a small grocery store.
The South Caribou is a vast sparsely populated pine and aspen forest land with rolling hills, frequent rivers, emerald green/blue lakes, and waterfalls, one of the most beautiful places in the world. He walked up a trail to a nice spot in Centennial Park by Bridge Creek, ate part of his lunch, and enjoyed the peaceful vista of the grassy open valley dotted with lumbar mills, ranches, 1,700 hardy people, and surrounded by low, pine covered hills.
There were few vehicles on the road, and no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He made a pit stop in Williams Lake which has nearly ten times the population of 100 Mile House, and there encountered police for the first time since he left Viet Nam and Hong Kong. He parked by Mirror Lake to admire the reflections of the low rolling pine covered hills and rocky escarpment on the glassy smooth water surface. An RCMP truck pulled up behind him, and the trooper got out and came over to the Sheep Dog’s car.
“How are you, today, sir?” the trooper asked in a friendly, courteous way.
Sheep Dog was on full alert, dreading what he might have to do.
“Anything wrong, officer?”
“Nothing at the moment. I came over to give you a little heads-up. We’ve been having a rash of car-jackings and other crimes against tourists lately around Williams Lake; so, the RCMP is warning people to avoid stopping by the side of the road for a while. You may know that Williams Lake has the highest number of crimes per capita in B.C., and the number of case files per constable is well above the B.C. average. Take care, and enjoy the beauty of the Caribou.”
Sheep Dog was sweating and made a concerted effort not to show his tension.
“Thanks, officer, I appreciate the heads-up. It seems out of character to have a crime wave up here in all of this gorgeous wilderness.”
“We think so too. We don’t want you to be another statistic. Have a safe trip.”
He tipped the brim of his cap and went back to his truck and drove on ahead of Sheep Dog. Sheep Dog lingered for fifteen minutes to give the Mountie a little distance from him before driving on towards Quesnel. Just south of the city, he saw the sign Steffan Johannson had alerted him about announcing the route to the “Nazko First Nations Reserve No. 1-120 km” and the “Gateway to the Nuxalk Carrier Grease-Alexander Mackenzie Heritage Trail”. He turned west and drove along the straight highway fringed on both sides by a dense coniferous forest. Even amidst all of that isolation, he drove the posted speed limit to avoid even the remotest chance of coming to the attention of the RCMP. He did anyway.
A Mountie car pulled him over. As with his earlier encounter, he tensed for battle.
The Mountie politely tipped the brim of his cap and said, “Sir, are you aware that a permit is required to enter this First Nation’s Reserve?”
“No, officer, I’m not. I just wanted to scout the trail, then spend the night in Quesnel and get some gear for a good back-pack trip.”
“No problem. We’re happy to have you. But just take the time to turn around and go back into town and get the permit at the Indian Office. It’s by Laboardais Park; you can’t miss it.”
“Sure. I didn’t mean to offend,” Sheep Dog said, aware of how touchy the Native American Indians were about their prerogatives and how closely Canada protected those special rights.
It was because of a collective national guilt-complex, an outgrowth of their abysmal treatment of the indigenous people in the past.
“Put the sticker on the upper right hand corner of your windshield, and we won’t have to disturb you again.”
“Thanks, officer. Have a good day, eh?” Sheep Dog said, putting a little colloquial Canadian touch to his speech for good measure.
“And the same to you.”
Sheep Dog went back to Quesnel and found the office. It was next to a huge sign advertising the game schedule for the “BCHL’s Quesnel Millionaires Junior A Hockey Team”.
The Indian Center was a neat, simple building which served for both business and as an information service for tourists interested in the Dakelh people who lived along the Nazko River. He paid a modest fee—using Canadian dollars—and drove back to the turn off.
This time he drove west about 75 miles, keeping a sharp eye out for the next turn Steffan had described. To his right he saw a narrow road that formed a T junction
with the main paved road to Nazko. A small crude sign said, “To Johannson Ranch”. He made the turn to the north and bounced along for a little over 100 miles where the road had a four-way intersection out there in the middle of nowhere. A weathered wood sign with pointers in all four directions indicated four different ranch roads. The Johannson Ranch pointer told Sheep Dog to continue straight ahead. The road became a rutted dirt track logging path that tested the all wheel drive of his GMC SUV and finally dead-ended abruptly at a thick patch of brush.
Sheep Dog got out and reexamined the directions that Steffan Johannson had given him, and he was absolutely certain that this was the correct place. Steffan—however—had not mentioned that the road ended in the middle of the bush hundreds of miles from any vestige of civilization. He nibbled on some lunch left-overs and pondered his predicament. Rather than get frustrated or angry, he lay down in the back seat and took a nap.
From his deep sleep, he became aware of eyes on him by some trick of a fugitive’s psyche and became instantly awake. There were four pairs of eyes on him, and the eyes belonged to young, earnest, and menacing Asians. All of them had guns, and all of the guns were pointed at him. The first thing that occurred to him is that he had been led into a trap. He was going to have to kill four men in the next few minutes or be killed himself.
The apparent leader of the group of young men gestured to Sheep Dog to get out of the vehicle. He tensed himself, shook off the grogginess left over from the nap, and slowly and deliberately climbed out. The gun muzzles continued to menace him.
The leader said, “Get down on your knees and lock your fingers behind your head.”
Sheep Dog was not inclined to get on his knees for anyone, but pretended to start to obey. He spun around and knocked the barrel of the leader’s M-16 away from where it was pointing at him. As he started to spin back around to take out the next gun in a desperate effort to create confusion and to gain the upper hand, he felt three then a fourth rifle muzzle jab into his back and chest.
“Dad told us what you’d try to do. Don’t do it again, or we’ll make Swiss cheese out of you. Put your hands behind your back.”
Sheep Dog meekly gave up and complied. One of the youths put plastic band wrist binders on him, and the five men trudged into the dense underbrush on a trail that Sheep Dog had been unable to see before. They walked about a mile on a heavily used horse trail until they came into an open cleared spread of fields, checkerboarded with an assortment of crops. Ahead, there was a handsome large log house with five similar out buildings and a huge barn. There were several large reception discs facing solar south to catch satellite signals. A corral holding a dozen good looking quarter horses stood to the right of the house, and a fenced pasture on the left contained several hundred sheep, goats, and sturdy Hereford cattle.
As they approached closer to the house, Sheep Dog could see into several of the sheds and took note of the farm equipment—which was obviously in keeping with the rest of the ranch appearance—but also two large Hummers. Sheep Dog wondered to himself where they drove the large all-terrain vehicles. He had not seen any roads that led into the main dirt track where he had been obliged to leave his GMC. One of the sheds was a well constructed hangar. In it sat a sleek Bell Longranger helicopter painted with a deep-forest camouflage pattern.
Twenty yards from the house, a tall, very large man with a shock of white hair stepped out of the front door. Behind him and walking in his protective umbra came a small, dark-skinned Asian-Eskimo appearing woman of about thirty. The manwho looked to be around his same agegrew larger as he approached Sheep Dog. He was a real giant, the white giant ghost [con ma da trang khong-lo] whom Sheep Dog had known as Anders Bergstrom, only an older copy of the infamous killer.
“You don’t look like Hunter Caulfield,” he said by way of greeting.
“And you don’t look like Anders Bergstrom. I have an excuse; I’m in disguise. What’s yours?”
Steffan laughed, “I’m old. But I could still give you a run for your money, Hunter. Let’s go inside. You can get out of those clothes and that head, and we’ll get some supper and have us a good talk. Boys, be nice and put away your guns.”
Sheep Dog was impressed at how immediately the youths obeyed. Steffan Johannson ran a tight ship.
“This is my daughter—step-daughter—actually, Candy Okobuk. She came down here with us when we left Kotzebue ten years ago. Her mom, Mary, got breast cancer and died after we moved.”
“Sorry,” Sheep Dog said.
He looked closer at the young woman. She was not Asian exactly, probably Inuit, maybe northern Alaskan Indian.
The Johannson ranch people were meat eaters. Candy, an Indian girl, and two Hmong girls served supper to sixteen ravenous workers: a huge pot roast, pork chops, a bushel basket sized bowl of steamed vegetables, apple sauce, boiled Russet potatoes, and two oversized platters of corn bread with slabs of butter and a serving bowl full of honey. Dessert was a peach cobbler served directly from the Dutch oven in which it was baked and two gallons of ice cream. Apple juice and whole milk sat in several large pitchers on top of the heavy table.
Sheep Dog thanked the girls and Candy and watched them and the hands clean up with an alacrity that the navy could learn from. Steffan bade Sheep Dog and three aging Asian men to follow him into his office.
“Hunter, these are the best men on earth. They are my most trusted friends. We all know about your troubles with the CIA. We have good TV news, and more than that, Daniel Perez—another real friend—clued us in. You’re among friends. This is Nguyen Lui Tran,” Tran gave a slight nod. “This is Phan Duy Ky, and that handsome devil is Fang Pao Xe.”
He gestured at a thin, wiry Vietnamese man and to a Hmong who still wore his hair in a tightly braided queue. Their scarred faces and hard eyes attested to their murky past. They acknowledged Steffan’s introduction of them.
“This is Hunter Caulfield, public enemy number one. Remember when I used to have that status. Kind of takes you back doesn’t it?”
“Hunter, let’s hear from you. Then you can wash up and get rid of that disguise. It’s kind of unnerving to hear your voice coming out of a different person.”
“Steffan, if you don’t mind, I need to keep it on, because I don’t have the materials to redo it, and I need to match my face with the picture on my documents to get back out of Canada. That okay?”
“Sure. Now, let’s hear it.”
Sheep Dog was at one of those rare points where he had to trust someone, and he instinctively felt trust for Steffan and his small band of Chinese pirates. He told them his whole story and concluded with the reason for which he had traveled to B.C.’s Caribou to see them. They nodded their understanding and approval. He handed Steffan a glossy 8 X 10 photograph of a girl.
The next day, Steffan had one of his boys fly Sheep Dog back to Vancouver and assured him that someone would drive the rental car back to the airport on time and full of gas to avoid drawing any attention to it. There was very little talk on the trip to the airport. When he got out, Sheep Dog thanked the young man, who merely nodded. By the time Sheep Dog was going in the doors of the South—International—Terminal, the Bell Longranger was back in the air.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
15 Months After the Attack on Iran
White House Oval Office: Conference, 1345
Present: POTUS, VPOTUS, FULL CABINET, SECRETARY OF STATE, JUNIOR DEPUTY UNDERMINISTER FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN
The president’s steward served Moroccan coffee, madjool dates from Saudi Arabia, freshly squeezed orange juice from Syria, and baklava from an old Persian recipe on a highly polished sterling silver platter to the men seated around the Oval Office. The unique aspect of this gathering was that it included an official representative—albeit an extremely minor one—of the Islamic Republic of Iran, the first such face-to-face encounter between officials of the two countries since the Iranian government sanctioned the student take-over of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran in
1979, and the ignominious failure by the Carter administration to take serious measures to rescue them or to retaliate against the Iranians.
“We are pleased to meet with the president in the Oval Office,” the nervous and stiffly correct young diplomat, Amin Mir abu-Saab, said.
“And we are pleased that your government would be willing to take this step towards rapprochement and normalization. We trust that your government is satisfied with our overtures to date?”
“President Sofrekheneh, himself, asked me to convey that very sentiment. In return, we wish to suggest that our two nations mutually establish a small consular representation consisting of a deputy foreign affairs consultant and an office staff of five persons. We suggest that the offices be established in Washington D.C. and Tehran respectively.”
“I see no particular hindrance to that proposal, do you Mr. Secretary?”
He directed his question to Jeremy Southem.
“No sir. I think we can persuade the Congress to go along.”
“There is just one thing,” abu-Saab said hesitantly.
“And that is…?”
“We have not yet been able to fund the work to complete covering the areas contaminated with radioactive waste. My president is unwilling to go ahead with normalization until that is done.”
“How can we help?”
“I hesitate to ask, but we are in need of $5 billion to complete the work. The president would be much better able to concentrate on the issues of normalization if we could obtain funding from our new friends, the Americans.”
It was blatant blackmail or begging or conniving or all three, but the president and the secretary of State felt pressured to make an historical breakthrough.
“I believe we could see our way clear to be of help. However, Mr. abu- Saab, we must have a gesture of good faith from your government.”
“What form might that take?”
“The government of the Islamic Republic of Iran holds as prisoners nearly thirty members of Usama bin Laden’s close family members who escaped into your country from Afghanistan immediately before the attack on New York City on September 11, 2001. You are—no doubt—familiar with the letters written by Khalid bin Laden to your government, to your president, and to Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, himself. We have independent sources. Among those family members being held are Usama’s sons Saad and Hamza, who are leaders of al-Qaeda, and their sister, 27 year old Eman, who escaped to and is being held in protective custody by the Saudis in their embassy in Tehran. Here is a complete list of the individuals. Mr. abu-Saab, we insist on these people being turned over the officials of the United States as a prerequisite for any further discussions about normalization.”
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