The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  “Yes, a ring of finality,” Reiter said, with a tight-lipped smile. He

  pressed a button. Fifteen seconds later, a female administrative assistant entered the conference room, took possession of the cash, and placed it in a large zippered bank bag. “Here’s your transaction receipt. Please put the receipt in a safe deposit box with the card. If you like, we can provide a safe deposit box for your convenience.”

  “Thank you, but I’m covered.”

  Reiter slid the papers in his portfolio on the table. He stood up. “Please tell your chairman we’ll take good care of your company’s numbered account. Welcome to Banque Matthias Reiter. We value your business, and we assure you of our commitment to protecting your identity.”

  “On my next visit I would like to invite you for dinner and discuss our mutually profitable arrangement,” said Dawkins as both men stood and shook hands. Reiter escorted him out of the conference room.

  He rode the elevator down to the lobby and left the bank. He entered a coffee shop at Rue du Mont Blanc 26 and ordered a hot latte. A smile appeared on his face as he thought of the upcoming opportunities to profit from the Afghan War.

  7

  June 2003

  ricksen tossed and turned in his bed. He hit the wall with his closed fist after seeing Sadozai on his knees, begging for his life: “I hate the Taliban. I’m not a Talib; Mark, I have a wife

  and two children, please don’t shoot.” He suddenly yelled, “No, Stop!”

  Sweat drenched his face, body, t-shirt and boxer shorts as he awoke from his nightmare. He squinted his eyes, reached for the nightstand, and turned on the light. The radio/alarm clock illumi- nated the time: 3:45 am. He couldn’t sleep anymore. He got up and went into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. He shook his head and thought to himself, It wasn’t my fault.

  It had been a little over a year since he had resigned his commis- sion from the US Navy. In September 2002, an executive recruiter in Arlington, Virginia, had an entry-level project management position available at Cambridge UAV Systems in Washington DC. The company designed and manufactured top-security drones for the Department of Defense and the CIA. The position required a college degree with several years of experience in clandestine operations and

  Special Operations Forces background with a top secret security clearance.

  His impeccable recommendations from the Admiral, the Task Force Commander of JSOC in Afghanistan, Major Templeton, and an anonymous person at the Agency sealed the job. He wondered if that person’s alias from the Agency was Dex. After several interviews, senior management hired him with an excellent benefits package, including a base salary of eighty thousand dollars a year.

  Ericksen put on his jogging outfit and sneakers and headed out. He resided in a one-bedroom apartment on Becontree Lake Drive in Reston, not more than two hundred fifty yards from Lake Fairfax Park. He ran at a good clip, a six minute mile. After running for forty eight minutes, he returned to his home, took a shower, got dressed, and left at seven.

  Once a month he made the trip to Charlottesville to visit his wife’s grave. He jumped into his vehicle and drove to a restaurant on Highway 28 for a full breakfast. He arrived at ten in the morning at the Monticello Memory Garden Cemetery with a bouquet of red roses.

  The next day he drove his Silverado pickup to Alexandria. He entered a three-story medical office building, walked up to the 3rd floor, made a left turn, and walked to suite 320. The signage on the door read:

  Dr. Ann B. Moore, Psychiatrist

  He entered the large office, approached the medical administra- tive assistant seated at her desk behind a window partition in the reception area, and handed her an envelope. “Here’s the statement and money.” His new phony driver’s license and social security number displayed the name of Rory Taylor. An old retired SEAL buddy had provided him with a forged ID and address to receive invoices and statements.

  “Please take a seat,” said the assistant. She looked up at him. “We’ll call you soon.” A minute later, the medical technician opened the door and called, “Mr. Taylor.”

  She escorted him to Dr. Moore’s office. The doctor smiled and shook his hand. He walked over to a comfortable leather chair oppo-

  site her chair and sat down. Trim and appearing to be in her mid- forties, she had short, layered auburn hair, wore fashionable, large eyeglasses, and on her ring finger displayed a large diamond wedding ring. She wore a navy blue knit top and matching skirt. Moore sat down and pulled up a chart. “Any more luck with your job search, Rory?”

  “No, Doctor.” “Anything new?”

  Ericksen had a frown on his face, as he motioned with his hands, “The Prozac isn’t helping…in fact, I’m having a difficult time sleeping and more anxiety attacks.”

  She shook her head and glanced at his chart. “My records show I gave you a six-week supply of fifty-milligrams a month ago. Do you still have any left?”

  “No, I threw them out,” as he shook his head and tightened his lips.

  “Okay, we’ll continue with the Prolonged Exposure Therapy… though I must admit, your lack of progress puzzles me.” She shook her head. “Please start again.”

  He removed his sports jacket and placed it on his lap. He glanced around the room for a moment, observed the same paintings, the university degrees, and a fancy Board Certified framed professional certificate.

  He intentionally lied to her almost about everything: his name, being unemployed, the branch of service, and the rank he held. He repeated his fictional story again. “It was April 27, a week before I was scheduled to go back to the States. Our Ranger platoon’s convoy spearheaded forward in broad daylight on the road from Kabul to Jalalabad, when the Taliban ambushed us. The lead Humvee hit a land mine and exploded. Men screamed, and the smell of explosives filled the air. Suddenly, I lost some of my hearing. Rounds fired from AK-47s rained down on us from high above the mountain. At that moment I felt a burning sensation – a bullet hit me. It ripped through my upper left arm. The sound of two more explosions reverberated and the earth shook.”

  “What went through your mind when you got shot?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember. Before I lost consciousness, I saw a few RPGs hit one of our trucks. It exploded into a fireball. Five platoon brothers burned to death. I’ll never forget the sight, the smell of body parts, and the fumes from the wreckages of our vehicles. It was horrible. The next thing I remembered was waking up at a field hospital and treated for my wounds.”

  Ericksen had been shot in the upper left arm while on a SEAL Team mission in Somali, a few years earlier.

  Dr. Moore stood up, walked over to him, shook her head, and placed her hand on his hand. “I honestly can relate to your pain. Seeing your buddies dying before your own eyes in the most horrific manner would cause most of us to continue to have nightmares and depression.” She looked straight into his eyes and softly said, “But Rory, we’ve been together addressing your PTSD for the past five months. We’ve tried Cognitive Behavioral Therapy first and transi- tioned to Prolonged Exposure Therapy. You kept a diary of these events, but you haven’t made any effort to confront those images of atrocities. I believe you feel a sense of guilt because you survived and some of your buddies did not.” He didn’t respond.

  She walked back to her desk, stared directly into his eyes, shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and had a troubled look on her face. “Truthfully, I’m at a loss for words; either my methods have not helped you, or you’re hiding something from me. I don’t enjoy saying this, but I think you should look for another psychiatrist.” Their eyes met, and their heads nodded in agreement.

  “Dr. Moore, I’m sorry.” He got up and walked out the door. He thought about the toll the missions had on him, but even though they were traumatic in most cases, he knew he could handle it. His motto always focused on duty, honor, and country. He had loved being a SEAL. However, killing Sadozai under his commander’s orders proved too hard to grasp. Broken
trust seared his heart and mind like a terminal disease that ate at him until there was nothing left in him to go on.

  The nightmares and the flashbacks drove him crazy. He just couldn’t confide in a psychiatrist and own up to that horrible event. He couldn’t tell her he worked on classified projects for a defense

  contractor. As far as she knew he didn’t have a job. When he started treatment, he always paid in cash and could not produce a health insurance card.

  He left the building and drove to his office in Bethesda, Maryland. His determination focused on being successful at Cambridge UAV Systems, and at the same time do his best to hide his PTSD. He had received two raises and one promotion since he joined the company and his supervisor received approval for him to start an Executive MBA program in September at the University of Virginia.

  8

  US Embassy, Baghdad

  n June 2004, Dawkins took a seat in the dining facility of the Republican Palace, now the headquarters for the US Embassy in Baghdad. He faced an Iraqi interim ministry official. The

  thin, middle-aged economist with the bushy mustache and oversized eyeglasses glanced around the room chewing his lunch entrée of lamb stew. After a few seconds, he turned back to him. “Colonel, I’ll be in London next week, and I’ll do the wire transfer.”

  Dawkins nodded. He assumed the monies would reach his Liechtenstein numbered bank account soon. Once deposited, he sent the money the next day to his other bank numbered account in Geneva He recognized he had to be cautious in any negotiations with any Iraqi ministry officials, for one never knew when a corrupt offi- cial would double-cross him and tell the authorities.

  “In October I’ll deliver another thirty million in cash to your ministry, and I expect you to continue our ten percent deal. It’s a win- win for both of us.”

  The official lifted the glass of orange juice, took a drink and

  placed the glass back down on the table. “Colonel, you can always count on me to be a partner to our secret arrangement,” he said as he smiled and nodded.

  Over the past year, he had added another responsibility besides his JSOC role: he served as head of security for the distribution of monies for the Iraq Relief and Reconstruction Fund managed by the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA). The CPA reported to the Secretary of Defense. Dawkins saw this as an opportunity to persuade other senior ministry officials to secretly partner with him. The major requirement focused on the delivery in cash, in one hundred dollar bills, shrink-wrapped, and placed in footlockers and file cabinets. Then Pulaski would load and transport the money on heavily guarded armored trucks in the wee hours of the morning. On June 28, 2004, the US government dissolved the CPA, and the Iraqi interim government took over power.

  The Project and Contracting Office (PCO), along with the Iraq Reconstruction and Management Office, replaced the CPA and now was under the oversight of the US State Department in Baghdad. He became an active participant with the PCO, a Defense Department branch that reported to both DoD and the State Department. At the end of June 2004, he asked two senior US Army contracting officers to meet him and Pulaski in Germany the following month.

  n July 17, the contracting officers flew to Ramstein Air Base from the Baghdad Airport on an Air Force cargo plane, arrived at two o’clock in the afternoon, and rented a car. They made a quick stop along the way, and picked up a twenty-five-year-old German woman, and continued on their journey to Wolfach, a sleepy, small village in the Black Forest region.

  Three hours later they registered at the front desk of the thirty- room rustic Hotel Steigerwald Eich, situated close to many hiking trails. The colonel and the woman shared one room, and the major had the other room.

  Dawkins had told the men they would be going to his Zurich bank on Monday to open private numbered accounts. The officers awarded contracts to Iraqi contractors for reconstruction projects and

  retained a percentage of the award in the form of cash. Once they received their kickback, they would contact Dawkins and arrange for the monies to be picked up by Pulaski. For these services, he charged the officers twenty-five percent of the monies collected.

  His access to a Gulfstream jet was secretly authorized by an intel- ligence group that operated in the shadows and provided his classi- fied trips to the US Air Force base at Ramstein, Germany, whenever he submitted a request. Most flights from Afghanistan and Iraq flew wounded soldiers or those killed in action on a regular basis to Ramstein AFB. This method offered a veil of secrecy.

  Dawkins and Pulaski landed at twelve-noon and were met by one of his Air Force friends who drove a US military truck up to the plane to retrieve luggage and two-foot lockers filled with cash. He drove the vehicle back to a hangar where both men unloaded and transferred everything into a Humvee.

  He planned to drive to Switzerland and deposit the monies into his private numbered accounts. Once there he would transfer a smaller cut to Pulaski’s numbered bank account, and a larger share into Shogun’s account.

  Dawkins thought of every detail to make sure no one could trace their every movement. He removed his satphone from his briefcase and made the call to one of the officers.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Iron Fist. I hope you’re enjoying the accommodations.”

  “We are. It beats the sound of rockets and IEDs,” the colonel said. “Enjoy the cuisine. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  On Sunday, July 18, the colonel and the German woman with auburn hair and a curvaceous figure enjoyed a walk along a path in the Black Forest. The warm weather in the late afternoon reached eighty degrees Fahrenheit. He observed them, as they walked. The couple slowed their pace down the trail, surrounded by the forest’s large trees and a wide variety of plants. They talked occasionally and seemed happy.

  He wore a Bavarian-type outfit, a hat, a pair of sunglasses, and a

  beard and mustache to disguise himself. His stealthy moves went unnoticed. As he came within sixty feet of them, he removed his Glock 9mm handgun with a suppressor from his backpack. The couple heard something, turned, and faced the man with the gun.

  “Good afternoon,” Dawkins said in German, as he took a few more steps and aimed his Glock at the startled colonel, who raised his hands. The bullets penetrated the colonel’s forehead, spurting blood down his face and body as he crumpled to the ground. Dawkins looked straight into the woman’s eyes.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” she cried out in German, as she raised her hands up near her face. “I’m sorry,” he said in English and fired off two rounds into her head and neck. Blood engulfed her blue dress as she lay dead on the ground, a few feet from the colonel. He looked both ways before he bent over the colonel’s body and searched for a wallet with his gloved hands. He pulled the wallet out of the rear pocket of the colonel’s trousers, removed all the money, and placed the wallet back into the colonel’s pocket. He then pulled the bodies off the trail and deeper into the brush.

  He moved at a fast pace through another trail till he reached a parking lot three miles from the murder scene. Pulaski opened the passenger door, and he jumped in. After driving for a few minutes, they pulled off the road, and he removed his disguise and changed shirts.

  He thought about the first time he had killed someone. It was his father. He grew up in rural Oklahoma, the only child of an abusive, alcoholic father and a timid, kind mother. The family owned a two hundred acre cattle ranch that generated a decent income. One evening he heard screams coming from his parents’ bedroom. He opened the door and was shocked to see his mother being beaten violently by his father. At sixteen, he was already six-feet-tall and had an athlete’s build. He screamed at his drunken father. In a fit of anger, he ran straight at him, threw several punches to his head, and pushed him out of the bedroom and against the second-floor railing. He lifted his bloody, dazed father up and threw him down the flight of stairs, breaking his neck. He checked for a pulse and discovered none. He had killed his father.

  The ne
xt morning, his mother, still in shock, her teary eyes red, watched as her son placed her husband’s body in the trunk of his car. He drove to an area near a creek on the property, dug a deep, unmarked grave, and placed large tree stumps over it.

  Being from a small town, the little time he had other than helping with the family’s cattle ranch focused on sports and the weekends, getting drunk at parties and fighting. He enjoyed being a bully by inflicting pain on students whom he didn’t like or who appeared to be weak, a trait he believed he learned from his father.

  As an outstanding high school athlete lettering in two sports, wrestling and football, he received a football scholarship from the University of Oklahoma. After he had received his degree, he entered the US Army’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) and received his commission as a second lieutenant upon the completion of his OCS training.

  Dawkins snapped back to the present. He called the major at four o’clock. “Hello,” the major said, after picking up his smartphone on the third ring.

  “This is Iron Fist. Let’s meet at six instead of seven.” “That’s fine, sir.”

  “I don’t know if you’re up to it, but I’m going for a three-mile hike into the woods.”

  Do you want to join me?” asked Dawkins. “I’ll pass, sir.”

  “No problem…By the way, Pulaski wants to drop off a bottle of your favorite brandy, but I don’t have your room number.”

  “I’m in 311.”

  “I’ll see you downstairs in the lobby at six,” he said, as his face formed a smile. Thirty minutes later, he spotted Pulaski walking at a brisk pace to their Humvee in the parking lot. He stopped, and Pulaski jumped into the car.