by S L Shelton
Barb was on a break from school. Not spring break—more like an extended mental health break—that long, deep breath one takes between a masters and a doctorate.
“Are you sure this will hold me?” she asked, tugging at the various loops and straps on her harness.
“No doubt,” I replied. “Trust me. I’ve been climbing since I was ten.”
I actually remember more about my first climb than anything else about “ten”. Something had happened to me that year. All my memories before that point were a jumble of violent images and bad dreams culminating in the death of my father. I had trained myself to avoid thinking about it.
“What about a pouchy thing for the chalk?” she asked, looking at her harnessed behind in the mirror by the racks.
“You mean a chalk bag?”
She slapped me again, playfully, as she giggled. I smiled at her response. “Yes,” she replied. “That’s what I said. The pouchy thing for the chalk.”
“Yep. Right over here,” I said, reaching for the wall. A cascade of colors assaulted my eyes in a visual hallucination—typical flowchart visualization—this time with a color schema attached to it. I grabbed a pink and purple one, her favorite colors, as confirmed by my internal flowchart.
She smiled and leaned on my arm, kissing me on the cheek.
Once I had paid for her new toys and a pair of decent climbing shoes, we drove up the beltway to Carderock, just west of DC on the Maryland side of the Potomac. It was one of my favorite places to climb.
**
“Can we try something harder this time?” she asked as we shouldered our equipment in the parking lot.
“Absolutely,” I replied, always happy to increase the difficulty of a challenge—one of my personality flaws.
In less than thirty minutes, she was cursing that request.
I was on belay at the foot of the cliff as she attempted her ascent. I was also enjoying the gorgeous shape of her behind as she moved with frustrating slowness to her next hand hold. It was too far for her to reach. I knew it. She knew it. But she tried for it anyway.
Pop. She came off the rock. I caught her weight immediately, leaving her dangling there for a few minutes as she swore under her breath.
“Hey there,” I yelled up to her.
“What?” she replied, clearly annoyed.
“To your left is a flake. It’s off route, but it still has a 5.7 rating,” I offered. “If you stretch your left foot out as far as you can reach, and then get your fingers in that flake, you can make it up the rest of the way and still have finished the hardest climb you’ve ever done.”
She looked down at me, thinking that over. “You don’t think I can finish the one I started?” she asked, pouting.
“The shoes I bought you are good... but they aren’t magic,” I replied with a mischievous grin. “If you do it my way, you’ll have made a two point jump past your best climb.”
“Would you still respect me if I gave up on this one?” she asked jokingly.
“A two point bump in rating after five climbs? Hell yeah. That’s very respectable,” I replied. “That and I might actually get to climb today.”
“I see right through you, Scott Wolfe,” she replied, playful, as she looked at the rock face again. After a moment of reflection, she set her jaw. “I’m going to try this one once more.”
I nodded, knowing it had been a losing suggestion to begin with. “What a surprise,” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?” she called down.
“On belay!” I said back.
I let the resulting memory trigger from that word wash through my brain without fighting it. I discovered long ago that the experience is over faster and with less disruption if I just let it happen.
Merriam-Webster
Belay - verb or Noun bi-ˈlā
1: the securing of a person or a safety rope to an anchor point (as during mountain climbing); also: a method of so securing a person or rope
2: something (as a projection of rock) to which a person or rope is anchored.
The words, formatting, indentation, and inflection scrolled through my head as if I were reading them from a page or a computer screen. More than likely a remnant from the first time I looked the word up. If I had needed context for when that particular memory had occurred, that would have popped up as well.
It was quite annoying to have a brain that acted like a golden retriever in a park full of squirrels. But it was also the secret to my success…success as a software developer, not as a boyfriend.
She dismissed my comment—and apparently my split second vacant stare as well—before attempting her original ascent path once more. After a couple of minutes, she popped off the rock again with another frustrated squeal. She dangled in her harness for a few seconds, shaking the tension from her hands.
“Are you ready for the other one?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly.
Within moments of getting back on the wall, she was past the crux move and moving her way to the top.
“Yay,” I yelled up to her as she touched the snap-links at the top of the climb.
“Yay,” she mumbled.
She walked down the cliff backward as I lowered her slowly. When her feet touched the ground, she unclipped the rope, looking up at the climb she couldn’t finish.
“Two points on the maiden voyage of your new shoes,” I said, consoling. “That’s quite a prize.”
“The other one would have been better,” she said quietly, her jaw set in frustration.
“Patience, young one,” I said soothingly. “All things in their own time.”
She turned and looked at me for a moment, measuring my comment, and then slapped me on my shoulder—playfully.
“It’s my birthday,” she said finally, breaking into a broad grin. “Buy me cake.”
No climb for me.
**
A few hours later, back at my condo in Fairfax, we had decided that we would bake a cake together. I’d convinced her to try the gluten-free cake mix; she convinced me to frost it with canned frosting. Compromise—the secret to any healthy relationship.
Dinner was spectacular, if I do say so myself. Pastured steak, parsnip and sunchoke shoestring fries, and fresh spinach and sunflower seeds sautéed in extra virgin olive oil. The wine was from a local Virginia winery. Not bad either. By the time we got to the cake, we had emptied the bottle and were both feeling quite playful. A little smear of frosting on a nose and then a bit on the chin and then the nape of the neck led to an obvious conclusion for the evening.
I was starting to see this girl, this woman, as more than a fleeting interest. But I also didn’t like feeling I was being maneuvered. That thought alone kept much of my heart in reserve.
**
Evening of April 24th—Bruges, Belgium
Satellite surveillance had been placed on Jovanovich’s senior lieutenant, Vukasin Popovich. He and his driver had been active for two days, but they had done nothing to indicate they were in physical contact with Jovanovich.
SEAL Team 9, Second Platoon had been brought into Belgium—the CIA station chief in Paris was certain that this would be their best opportunity to capture Jovanovich.
In the briefing, Langley had made it clear that if Popovich didn’t lead them to Jovanovich soon, they would make the call to capture him for interrogation. They didn’t expect Popovich to go down easily, but it was made clear; if there was no Jovanovich, Popovich had to be taken alive.
Shortly after night fall, the plan solidified. Satellite imagery showed Popovich’s Land Rover had pulled into a parking structure with just him and his driver, but when they emerged from the other side, there were four people in the vehicle. That was the break the team had been waiting for.
A flurry of communication began as soon as the Rover reappeared on the street. Lt. Marsh’s team was on the ground in Bruges, and the Director of NCS—a Deputy Director of the CIA—was running the operation personally back in Langley,
Virginia.
“Arrow, this is Papa. Can you confirm that’s our target rolling? Over,” came the voice of Director Burgess through Lt. Marsh’s tactical headset.
“Papa, this is Arrow. Confirmed. Primary target is outbound. That’s our guy. Over.”
“Acknowledged. It’s about time. Do you need anything from this side, or can you take him now?” Burgess asked.
Marsh looked at his teammates. They all nodded. “Papa. We are good to go. Over.”
“Roger. See you on the other side. Papa out.”
That would be the last contact they had with Langley until after the mission unless something went wrong.
Four members of the SEAL team were in a nondescript minivan, following the Rover at a respectable distance. There was a second squad watching the safe house that had been used by Popovich the night before.
“Arrow. This is Stinger. We are standing by to assist. Do you need us closer?” Marsh’s second-in-command asked from their stationary position outside the Serb safe house.
“Negative, Stinger. You’re too far out. Plus, if they slip through, they’ll probably head your direction. Keep that safe house buttoned up. I don’t want any reinforcements spoiling our surprise party,” Marsh replied.
Two clicks on the COM confirmed the command had been received.
Their spotter, one of two snipers set up for the operation, was perched on a crane next to the canal. His elevated position—and his scope—gave him the perfect vantage point to follow the target over quite a range of distance.
“Arrow. This is Crow,” the sniper said. “Target has just turned onto the service road at the docks. West Point. You’re gonna miss your turn unless you cross two lanes right now.”
In the van, Marsh slapped the driver in the shoulder indicating he should try to make the turn. “I always wanted to go to West Point,” the driver—Petty Office “Mac” McIntyre—said.
“You wouldn’t meet the height requirement,” Marsh said. “You have to be short enough to kiss ass without bending over.” A moment of panic seized Marsh when it dawned on him that the Director of NCS was no doubt listening to their chatter—and he had been a West Point grad.
Through their earbuds, they heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing his throat. Marsh dropped his head as a sheepish grin appeared on his face.
“I guess you’re passed over again, Skipper,” Mac chuckled, his hulking body shaking the driver’s seat with a convulsion of laughter.
“Arrow, this is Crow. They just stopped outside a warehouse at the point. No other traffic in the area. Over,” the sniper said, snapping everyone back to focus.
“Crow. Acknowledged. We are one mike behind them. FUBAR that truck on my mark, and we’ll come in hot,” Marsh said as he made a slicing motion with his hand, letting Mac know to speed up.
He heard two clicks in his earpiece, confirming receipt of the command.
“Go dark now,” Marsh said to Mac.
He counted down contact. “Twenty…fifteen…ten…five… Take the truck.”
A shot from the crane above the night skyline sent an armor-piercing round through the engine block of the Land Rover.
“Three…two…one…”
The van skidded to a stop next to the vehicle, its passengers already on the ground with their weapons trained on the occupants of the Rover. But as soon as the engine had been struck by the .50 caliber round, Popovich had drawn his weapon and opened his door. The other occupants of the vehicle weren’t quite as fast, but they attempted to follow suit.
Popovich dropped to the ground as the minivan pulled up, firing two shots at the feet of the exiting occupants. One SEAL was struck and fell to the ground, leaving his head a target to the efficient Bosnian Serb killer. Popovich didn’t hesitate for a second—the SEAL never even got a chance to steady his weapon.
The SEAL squad opened fire immediately, killing the driver as he drew his weapon. The passengers in the rear of the vehicle quickly ducked down, shooting back through the window and rear hatch. Lt. Marsh tipped his rifle at an angle and shot down into the back seat, striking one of the men in the leg. When the wounded Serb raised his head in pain, Marsh noted it was not Jovanovich and put two bullets through his temple with his silenced rifle.
Pop. Pop.
The single remaining vehicle occupant placed his hands on his head and screamed, “Surrender!”
The SEAL who had gone around the opposite side of the Rover was caught in the chest with small arms’ fire. His body armor absorbed the impact, but the blow sent him to the ground. The one second of peace Popovich bought himself was all he needed to make it to the edge of the dock. As he dove in, the sniper got off a third shot, striking Popovich at an angle across his head. He disappeared into the dark water.
“Crow, did you get the fourth tango?” Marsh asked into his throat mic.
“I got a piece of him, Arrow. But I lost him in the water,” the sniper replied.
“Shit!” one of the other team members exclaimed behind Marsh.
Marsh turned to look as Jovanovich’s head was being black bagged and his hands zip tied. He saw the fallen team member—Petty Officer Mickelson. The dark hole in the center of his forehead precluded any question as to his condition.
“Papa. This is Arrow. Target acquired, kicking. Two bad guys down, one unaccounted for,” Marsh said. Then, after a second’s pause, “One casualty.”
“Arrow. Papa. Acknowledged. Bring it in.” Burgess replied with a somber tone.
“Roger. Arrow out.”
**
Back at Langley, DIRECTOR BURGESS walked upstairs to his office rather than taking the elevator. As soon as the door to the stairwell groaned closed, he paused on the stairs, took a deep breath, and muttered, “Fuck.”
three
Eight Days Until Event
4:00 p.m. on Saturday, May 8th, 2010—400 block of Singel in Amsterdam, Netherlands
SJAAK VISSER was very happy. It was Saturday, and he was always happy on Saturday. He was the owner of a small fleet of canal tour boats in Amsterdam for which he worked very hard all week, managing bookings, taking reservations, and when shorthanded, even piloting a tour boat.
But today he was happy, and it was not because his job was so rewarding. He hated his job. He didn’t like dealing with idiots, foreigners, and especially tourists. What made him happy was that all week long, while reservations were made and prepaid with credit cards, those who hadn’t thought ahead, paid cash at the time of service—untraceable cash. Cash that didn’t go on the books.
With his coffers full, he looked forward to Saturday, when he would go to the office, reconcile the books for the week, and then pocket the unrecorded cash. It wasn’t a fortune. Not enough to escape his life. But it was enough for him to buy a generous portion of hash, smoke it with his friends, and then amble, bleary-eyed, down to his favorite Italian prostitute, Nella, who was always waiting with a smile and her ample bosom to soothe his worries away.
“Next Saturday, then?” Nella asked as Sjaak stumbled to the door, still trying to fasten his pants, the sweat of their passionate business exchange still fresh on his cheeks.
He looked up and smiled. “Yes,” he replied. “We will run off together next Saturday.”
Nella laughed. “I don’t think your wife will like that very much,” she said swatting him playfully on the behind. “Besides, I am too expensive for you to hold onto every day.”
“I would buy you the biggest diamond in all of Amsterdam and settle our tab up front,” he gushed, a silly grin on his face.
Nella laughed again. “You should wait until your hash wears off before making promises like that,” she said, giving him a wet kiss before shooing him out the door. “Good-bye, my sweet…until we meet again.”
He stumbled out the door, carrying his silly and content grin with him. On the lazy walk home, he fantasized about a small house in Italy with a buxom new wife—Nella—and the leisure that would come from not having boats, employees, a fam
ily, or dealings with tourists.
By the time he reached his house, he was completely immersed in the dream. But as he put his hand on the door knob of his home on the 400 block of Singel, the bitterness of his reality began to creep back, crashing his buzz.
Upon opening the door, his hash- and sex-induced euphoria was further eroded, in a way quite different from the usual disgusted ranting of his wife.
Four men were standing in his parlor. Two of them stood behind his two children, who were seated on an oversized ottoman in the center of the room. The other two men sat on the sofa, one on each side of his wife. His wife had blood trickling down from her hairline and an angry abrasion on her lip, which was starting to swell at the corner of her mouth.
He paused as he came into the room. His fuzzy head cleared very quickly when it finally dawned on him something was terribly wrong. “What is this? Why are you in my home?” he blurted in a nervous attempt at anger.
“Calm down, Mister Visser,” came a voice from behind. Three more men had appeared behind him.
“We have a task that requires your assistance if it is to be successfully accomplished,” the man said. He was in his late thirties, average height and weight, with dark black hair and what appeared to be a thick scar on the right side of his neck and jaw, running from his ear to his chin like spilled wax.
“You have reservations for thirty people to take a canal lunch tour on Monday morning at eleven o’clock,” he continued.
“How do you know this?” he choked out indignantly.
The man walked calmly over to Sjaak before striking him sharply across the face with the back of his hand. Sjaak just stood there, dumbfounded.
“You will not speak. You will listen,” the man continued in an even tone. “You will take these passengers aboard your boat, La Belle Époque, and proceed toward Nieumarkt Square. Before arriving at Nieumarkt Square, you will pass under Jodenbreestrat Bridge. When the entire boat is under the bridge, you will stop. We will do our business, and then you will continue to Nieumarkt Square. Now repeat to me what you will do.”
