The Recruiter

by Roger Weston

  Next to Jeff was his wife Karla, a former green beret. Karla was a pretty gal, and the knife scar on her chin didn’t change that.

  “Hello,” Chuck said, and gave her a hug. “Good to see you. You’re as lovely as ever.”

  “You look like hell,” she said. “What truck did you get hit by? Did you get the license plate number?”

  “I did,” Chuck said. “Glad to see you still have your sense of humor.”

  Karla shrugged her shoulders.

  Jeff patted Chuck’s back. “Wasn’t so sure I’d see you again. Thought you overplayed your hand.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “How you holding up?”

  “He’s breathing, isn’t he?” Karla said.

  Chuck nodded. “Yes, but it hurts. Actually, my situation is worse than you think.”

  Jeff glanced anxiously down the street. “What do you mean?”

  “You remember I told you about Lydia, the girl I met in Burma.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve got her.”

  Jeff shook his head and looked down, his lips moving silently.

  “Bastards,” Karla said. “I’m sorry, Chuck.” As they walked down to the docks, Chuck filled them in on the details. As they boarded his boat, he thanked them for sailing his boat up to Seattle and then dropped his bags in his cabin. When he returned to the galley, Jeff handed him a cup of coffee.

  “How’d you get sucked back into the RUMAN trap anyway?”

  “Service is how.”

  “Wrong place for it.”

  “I can see that now.”

  “All enemies,” Jeff said. “Just a dirty, ugly, filthy business. They brainwash you and lie to you and enslave you. Turn your life into hell.” He patted the table. “Time to get your life back. We’ll help you find Lydia. Maybe then you’ll have the sense to bring her with you and come down to Costa Rica with us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Wimberly, Texas

  The man with the straw-colored hair laid his Weatherby Mark V 375 H&H rifle on the table and admired the weapon that he had lived with for three weeks in Africa. The 375 H&H was a beautiful weapon. The black oxide matte finish reduced reflection and glare and improved his concealment in the grass when stalking lion. The shallow gold-filled V rear and the front sight with a large gold bead had provided immediate sight alignment and target acquisition. Over the past three weeks, he had killed a lot of fast-moving animals.

  He had enjoyed the safari, but was glad to be back in Texas. It hadn’t been all pleasure in Africa. He’d had to take care of some business as well. But now back in the Lone Star state he was sipping a tumbler of cognac while playing chess with Natalia. After a few hours of relaxation, he showered and then sat at his computer in his bathrobe.

  He went online and found an encrypted email from Leslie. His blood pressure rose in a good way. Leslie the lithe little package, the bright eyes and the bright brain. The soft skin and the soft hair. Leslie. But this was all business. Not to his liking, but not the sort of thing he could ignore either.

  Dear sweet Curtis,

  I miss you so much. I’ve had it with all that I’ve had to put up with here. I want to be with. But the time isn’t right just yet. I’m worried about Brandt.

  Robert hired him to deal you the queen of spades. I can hardly stand to think of it. What would I do without you? Chuck’s in Seattle now meeting with Robert and hunting for clues on your location. Please do what you should have done in Colombia. Come and close the Brandt file. Act quickly. The time is now. I’m so ready to be together.

  Love, Leslie

  Curtis considered her note for two minutes. Seven months after the Colombia washout, he’d begun an affair with her. She was a very attractive woman, but her value was in getting intelligence on Chuck and other RUMAN operatives. He was determined to put RUMAN out of business, and EREBUS, Curtis’s employer, was poised to do just that. EREBUS had hired him not long after he’d returned from Colombia. His job for them was to expose the weak links in RUMAN’s structures. By assassinating deep-cover operatives, he was demonstrating for CIA director Vincent Law that RUMAN was soft and penetrable and that EREBUS should be their agency of choice for funds buried in the upcoming stimulus bill. The stakes were huge. Billions of dollars slated for black operations and control of the SMW was the prize for the agency that Director Law chose to elevate. The losing agency would be dismantled. Curtis had changed the game, and he was happy to do so. After the Colombia mess, RUMAN had tried to sanction him. They had failed, but in his eyes, they’d also declared war on him, and that was a mistake.

  He was using Leslie, but he also knew that she had worked a certain spell over him. He liked her and sometimes imagined that the future they had discussed might actually happen. It could be nice, but it was risky.

  Curtis sent an encrypted email to his team leader. The loose baggage they’d discussed had to be handled. He would pack up and head north.

  For now, his downtime had come to an end, and his business had come to a crossroad. He’d pack up his private plane and try to relax on what would be a quiet trip. At least until he got there.

  CHAPTER 19

  Next Morning, Ballard Docks

  After getting dressed, Chuck heated up the grill in the galley of his fishing boat. He hooked up his laptop to his satellite phone and went online. The smell of pancakes filled the galley, but he didn’t eat much. He tapped at his keyboard and routed his secure username through five different universities in third world countries to hide his electronic tracks. All of that was simply a precaution since his usernames were different from his regular aliases and unknown to RUMAN or any other potential threats. He checked three of the accounts. He spotted a note from Gavin Harker. He stared at the name for a moment since he didn’t know anybody with that name. The reference to an emotional support group caught his attention.

  The note invited him to join the group. It wasn’t specifically addressed to Chuck and could have been SPAM, but it seemed coincidental given that his shrink had recently diagnosed him as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and had thrown out some other terms, too. Had his shrink violated his privacy? He shouldn’t have trusted her. Except for his wife, he’d never opened up to anybody like that before. Not even Lydia. But in a moment of weakness after his wife’s death, he went through a black period of personal crisis. He made some bad choices and let some things slip that he shouldn’t have.

  Shaking his head and refocusing on how to find Lydia, he made several secure calls to old contacts, including one who was highly placed in the CIA. His friend was reluctant to talk, but Chuck had saved his life in Sudan.

  “Lawrence, I need a favor. You’ve got to come through for me, buddy. I need to know about the location of a government facility called Jin Mountain and the death of a man named Bruce Foley.”

  Lawrence was quiet for a moment. “Okay, sure, I’ll help you out, but this evens the score between us.”

  “I understand. One other thing, I need to know what you can find out about a RUMAN shrink named Leslie Bower.”

  “RUMAN? That could be tough. I don’t have that kind of access, you know. They’re totally in the dark, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  After hanging up, Chuck sat by the open galley door of his boat, watching as rain fell on the iron-bark deck. He sat there for a long time, staring at the falling drops, listening to the sound as they splattered on the water. He was still there an hour later, watching the rain—rain that came from thick dark clouds that hung low over the city. For the hundredth time he considered the possibility that his shrink was working with RUMAN. How could Chuck have been so foolish? He watched the rain.

  CHAPTER 20

  Seattle, Washington

  Robert slipped the handgun out of his briefcase and put it in the drawer, which he slid shut. He leaned back in his chair and filed his nails while he thought about his biggest problem—and opportunity—Chuck Brandt. When enough data wa
s collected, analyzed, and logged so that a variety of instructive patterns began to emerge, Robert would be able to control even the most ruthless men. Not only that, if his research was successful, he would be given control of the SMW program. Then there wouldn’t be anyone he couldn’t control.

  Robert nodded at Leslie as she entered his office. She took a seat across the desk and scooted up close.

  Robert tightened the knot of his silk tie. “Have you heard the latest on our boy?”

  “Tell me he’s been terminated.” Leslie took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief.

  “No such luck.”

  The shrink’s posture grew rigid. She clamped her lips tightly together.

  Robert spread out his pale fingers and looked at his hands. He said, “The people in Washington like to see the data we’re generating. Makes them eager to fund. Our friend Mr. Brown is about to secure another vote for the stimulus bill. Things are happening fast now, Leslie. We have an incredible opportunity here. This is all very exciting.” Robert pushed the button on the phone and spoke into the loud speaker. “Gail, is Parcher here yet?”

  “He’s waiting.”

  “Send him in.” Robert put away the file and the manicure kit.

  Parcher sat next to Leslie.

  “Do you have your reports on Brandt’s stress quotient?” Robert said.

  Parcher held up a packet. “Right here.”

  Robert flipped through the pages, studying the emotion graphs. He held up a stress quotient chart. “After that initial jump, the line goes flat.”

  “It’s rising,” Parcher said, “but gradually. It spiked when he took down Zinn.”

  “You don’t get it,” Leslie said, tight wrinkles spider-webbing across her face. “That flat line is a red flag. For him, chaos is normal. He’s most at home in a war zone, hunted for weeks behind enemy lines while he tracks down and eliminates targets. Sure, turn up the heat on him. When that happens, the chaos is going to be on us, Robert, not on him.”

  Parcher shook his head in irritation. “I just said the line is rising.”

  “Then take another look at it,” Leslie said. “You’re going blind. He’s nowhere near the bifurcation point. You’ve got less than nothing there.”

  “How can we produce results with Brandt?” Robert said.

  “You can’t. Not with a flat line like that.” She gave Parcher’s report a scornful look. “Show me an erratic chart, and that’s something else. When our asset is off balance—and I mean in a true state of bifurcation—then we can nudge him down a new path of development. We might have to push him to the breaking point several times to get the desired result, but again, we’d have him in a place where small inputs would yield massive and radical results. It’s like the theoretical butterfly effect where a butterfly flaps its wings in Argentina and it causes a tornado in the panhandle. You’ve seen how we’ve turned around our most stubborn immigrants to where they were practically begging us to use them. That’s where the payoff is—with soft targets—not with a rogue like Brandt. It’s not that it couldn’t work. It’s that the risks are too high, and frankly, too dangerous.”

  Robert nodded as if he was impressed. “Thank you, Leslie.”

  She shook her head. “Your plan is backfiring. Brandt thrives in chaos and adversity. It feeds his compulsive risk-taking disorder. All you’re doing by tormenting him is creating a problem you won’t be able to contain. How smart is that when we’re under CIA scrutiny over the increase in funding?”

  Robert stood up. “I thank you both. Leslie, you’re a genius, but your creation may have outgrown you. Parcher has surveillance on Brandt and is about to hit him hard. If that doesn’t push him to the edge, I’ll kill the bastard myself.”

  Robert picked a hair off the arm of his silk sports jacket and dropped the strand into the waste-paper basket. “No, I won’t have to. After all, I expect Curtis will handle that very soon.” He glared at Parcher. “Which is why you better show me some dramatic results very soon.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Orcas Island Airport, Washington State

  The stranger with the straw-colored hair and the pony tail climbed out of the Cessna and stepped onto the tarmac. He vaguely noticed the tall trees lining the runway, the sun glimmering off East Sound, and the blue skies that weren’t supposed to be here. But the stranger was not here for scenery. He examined the area casually, but carefully. He saw a car inside an open hanger and a mechanic working on a plane. The “mechanic” got up and walked over. The man was in his mid thirties. He was lean and his left ear was scarred by burns. He was Curtis’s second in command. He was known as Mr. Miller.

  “Right on time,” he said.

  Curtis didn’t smile. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

  Mr. Miller gestured for Curtis to follow him to the car. He opened the trunk, which blocked the view of anyone outside the hanger, although there was nobody in sight.

  Mr. Miller handed Curtis a 7.62mm Dragonov sniper rifle. Curtis checked the Soviet weapon and placed it back in the trunk. He looked over a 12-bore Franchi SPAS 12 automatic shotgun. It had a skeleton butt and a device enabling it to be fired with one hand if the occasion required. In fact, Curtis had no idea what the occasion would require, so he wanted to be flexible. Ultimately, he hoped to take Chuck out with a knife. He lifted a fixed blade dagger; its twelve-inch blade glistening in the sunlight. There were other things to bring of course—maps, binoculars, compass, first aid kit, and a handgun with extra magazines.

  There were certain lines that couldn’t be crossed, and when they were crossed, retribution couldn’t be overlooked, and when it was overlooked, guys like Curtis found themselves doing the things they should have done long ago. The game had rules, and he who broke the rules faced real consequences. Better to play by the rules. To keep it simple. Now a ferry boat to Seattle. And then another firefly extinguished.

  Curtis shut the trunk. “That’ll do, Mr. Miller. Keep the team on stand-by. I’ll contact you when I need you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Kalorama House, Washington D.C.

  Earl Brown slammed the phone down after another two dozen calls to shore up votes on the new stimulus bill. He was wearing out his voice trying to explain how essential the buried funding was to national security, but senator after senator had resisted, complaining about everything from skeptical constituents to fiscal responsibility. Even moderates were running for cover. He’d hoped to have this closed by now, but he still needed three votes and he’d run out of options.

  “Walter,” he said. His assistant rushed out of the library with a handful of faxes.

  “Any good news?”

  Walter paged through the faxes. “Not exactly. Senator Moreland says it’s not popular and don’t bother him with unpopular bills.”

  “What else you got?”

  “Senator O’ Conner said not this time and Senator Georges’ secretary said she had been advised that he has made up his mind and doesn’t want to receive any calls from Earl Brown in the future.”

  “Call him and tell him I need to meet with him in person.”

  “But he said—”

  “I heard you. Now call the slimy jerk and tell him we need to meet urgently. Tell him it’s critical to his career that he meet with me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I didn’t get where I am today by giving up every time somebody says no.”

  “What are you gonna say to him?”

  “Just make the call. How many more appointments have you set up for me this week?”

  Walter had two more confirmations.

  “That’s it? We need three more votes. Who agreed?”

  “Troutman and Willis.”

  Earl cursed. “Troutman wants the free food and Willis will agree to anything but never follows through.” He shook his head. “I’ve been on this rat run for years, Walter. I’ve watched them come and go. I’ve twisted arms. I’ve negotiated more bills than you could believe.
I’ve gotten legislation passed that should never even have made it to the floor. Now I’m faced with the biggest deal of my life and I couldn’t close a lay-down on a timeshare in Mazatlan. You ever seen the shrimp in Mazatlan?”

  Walter said he hadn’t.

  “They’re big,” Earl said. “Big and juicy and local fisherman sell them fresh. You get a few big fat bags of those jumbos for nine dollars and you go up to your penthouse and sauté half of them in butter and garlic. You drool so much that you need buckets to avoid a flood. The rest you eat raw on cocktail sauce. You sit out on your lanai and eat those babies by the pound with a little senorita fanning you and all the glory of paradise spreads out in front of you like a postcard that you just fell into. Sun splashing off the water. Palm trees. Grass umbrellas. Tropical drinks. Enchiladas.” Earl closed his eyes. “You can smell the coconut oil and feel the cold drink going down your throat while a mariachi strums his guitar down by the pool.” He snapped his fingers and his belly shook like a beached whale in an earthquake. “Yes.” He opened his eyes and looked straight at Walter. “It’s irresistible.”

  “So what’s your point? This is D.C.”

  “Yes, but people are still people whether they’re here or Mazatlan. They still respond to stimulus just like mice respond to cheese. We just haven’t brought out the cheese yet.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “To pass this bill, of course.”

  “But Senator Vera said you had no chance of getting a majority.”

  “He’s a moron. This bill will pass. Nothing can stop it.”

  “But we don’t have the votes, and there are no crossovers left.”

  “You don’t get it yet, Walter. We have the votes. You just can’t see them yet because you believe all the garbage they’re telling you. Never believe what you see or what you hear. Idiots do that. You haven’t learned to how to make things happen yet. Well, you’re going to learn, and your daddy’s going to owe me for turning his son into a legislation machine. You wait. You’re gonna be rich and fat.” Earl gestured at the silver plates. “Get used to pleasure, my friend.”