Custos: Enemies Domestic

by Jake Aaron

  “Good. No traces, no connections.” Stan was all business. “How can I serve the country before I slip the surly bonds of earth?”

  “First, it breaks my spirit that patriots like you might leave us. I wish you the best. If there’s anything I can do to help you, say the word… Otherwise, the most immediate threat to the United States is indulgent overspending,” the senior man counseled. Congress must stop overspending.

  “Overspending is the Achilles heel of democracies. Stopping it must be the first step in saving the country. Hypothetically, one would set something like this in motion and leave it to an autonomous operator to run with. One would hope the operator would minimize exposure and have an exit plan if the net began to close. The net will close. Of course, the operator would have to be crazy — like Nathan Hale,” he squelched an ironic laugh. Clearly, the senior man liked to serve up sentences with a twist. His thinking was far less linear than his critics alleged.

  The younger man muffled a chuckle. He allowed himself a shadow of a smile, “Well, you know what they say about us paratroopers: You have to be crazy to jump out of a perfectly good airplane!” Then the younger man nonchalantly rose to take one more snapshot — a panorama. “It’s not every day you get to talk to the Director of the FBI… See you on the other side… All the way!” he added, honoring their common 82nd Airborne Division roots. It required a strong conscious override for Stan to avoid his muscle memory’s command to salute to a senior officer. He hadn’t saluted for decades and was surprised by the vestiges of Army discipline.

  Without looking at Stan, the Director added, “One more thing, Stan, before you go: Study Job, the book in the Bible.” His words were authoritative; and tone, directive.

  Epilogue

  Georgetown

  January 18

  Stan was in his studio apartment in Georgetown. Barry Feldman, his hospice nurse and former Navy corpsman, was making small talk as he picked up breakfast dishes from his patient’s overbed serving table. “How about that Custos guy? Looks as if he started something to rein in those morons in Congress. They think we’re dummies who will pay for their power and perks while they buy votes for roads to nowhere. Rogues to nowhere, that’s what they are. They’re criminals — traitors! They’ve sold out the nation and bankrupted it.

  “You expect a little pork barrel here and there to get legislation through the system. When I was a kid, I think Congress had its share of corruption. There were a few statesmen, but the majority of corrupt politicians had sufficient wisdom not to destroy the good thing they had going. Now, the massive corruption of most of Congress threatens to bring down the whole system. Congress disgusts me!

  “I’ve had it. Seems more and more Americans are with me… I’ll get off my high horse now. Just good to see the country getting back on track again. For all I know, you may be one of those big-spending lefties. Which is to distinguish you from the the equally corrupt righties. A distinction without a difference. No offense intended, in any case. Anyway, I love this Custos guy. Just what the country needs.”

  “No worries. I think I’m a lot like you, Barry. What do you think? Is this Custos phenomenon just a Robin Hood thing? When I visited New Zealand decades ago, I was struck with the public’s puzzling admiration for a cat burglar. The thief was the police’s nemesis and seemingly enemy of the people. Strange for civilized societies to romanticize law breakers over their protectors.”

  “That’s just it. Our legislators are no longer our protectors. Custos is an answer to that. He has inspired hundreds, maybe thousands to take action. I’m for law and order, myself, but there won’t be any law and order if those imbeciles in Congress destroy this country. I consider them the tyrants whose blood must be shed from time to time to keep the tree of liberty alive, to borrow from Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Barry, what about Speaker of the House Johnson? Sounds like he’s on the right track.”

  “Stan, I hope you’re right, but he is a politician. It’s obvious to me that we must lead so they can follow… They’re sheets in the wind. Dirty sheets… I don’t know whether venting like this is good for my blood pressure or not… Need anything, Stan?”

  “Barry, I’m close… I know you know. I can see it in your eyes. I need a rabbi, a priest, and a minister for a last sacrament — that’s not a joke… Will you coordinate that for me?”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s quite a trinity, so to speak. You just want one of those folks, right?… I know your sense of humor. You wouldn’t invite those three to watch them fight, would you?”

  “Heavens no!” Stan quipped. Both roared uproariously. “Seriously, I want all three. Here’s a list of their names and numbers. I’ve done my homework. These are very smart, soulful people who I think will come. Let’s plan on 5:30 P.M. today. Please tell them why I want them and respectfully request their presence. And Barry, I could use more morphine.”

  “Sure, Stan. Anything else I can do?”

  “Yeah, Barry, I know you’re a full-fledged medical professional, registered nurse, and trained Navy corpsman, so I feel guilty about asking you to do this. But would you mind getting a few items for my visitors? I put a kosher cognac on the list. A six-pack of San Pellegrino water would be good. Some water crackers and cheese are a must. Get the good stuff. Here’s $200. Thanks, Barry.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  “Barry, appreciate it. You know, your being a Navy corpsman is a big deal to me. It’s why I picked you above many other qualified health care providers. Thanks for your service!”

  “Right back at you, boss. I know you don’t talk much about what you did for a living, but I think I know, so thank you for your service. I’ll set up the clergy visit and get the grog and grub. While I’m out, I’ll pick up your prescriptions. You seem good. I’ll be on my cell if you need me. Why don’t you take a nap while I’m away?”

  “Sounds like a great idea, leave the door unlocked. Charlie said he was dropping by to loan us a new Netflix release.”

  “I don’t know about leaving the door unlocked. You don’t want some thug coming in on you and killing you in your sleep do you?”

  “That might be just what I want, Barry.” Both enjoyed a light chuckle over Stan’s gallows humor. Stan had a look of satisfaction and peace. Barry appeared empathetic but revolted by the thought.

  “So I will honor your open-door policy, Stan. Sleep well, my friend!”

  “Oh, Barry, one more thing. This neck brace is starting to smell a little. Could you do a quick cleaning?”

  “I’ll get right on that! I’ll use a hair dryer on it afterward so you won’t be without it too long. I hope high school lacrosse was worth it,” Barry scolded like the medical professional he was.

  “At least the neck thing is not chronic. It just seems to randomly pop up for short periods of discomfort. Who’d ever guess a pain in the neck?” Stan joked. And yes, I’d play lacrosse again. It was worth it!”

  “Stan, while I’m at it, I’ll also change out that splint on your right middle finger. Does that help keep you from scratching it?”

  “It does. When bad buys took the tip off, it never got the chance to heal right. Maybe a little Lanacane on the finger?” Stan requested.

  “You’ve got it, boss.”

  Barry was unaware that Stan actually needed neither the neck brace nor the finger splint. Stan had a other reasons for these subterfuges, all of which were tradecraft.

  _____________

  The day before, Stan had estimated when Barry would leave for the grocery run and had a planned visitor in the parking lot waiting for his call. Stan used a burner cell. “Mark, we’re clear. Come on up!”

  Mark Trace was a 6-foot-one, athletic-looking, early-retired Navy SEAL. Stan had met Mark at Walter Reed when each was undergoing infusion therapy. Stan had given Mark a disposable cell as a good luck gift. “What for?” Mark had challenged at the time.

  “Mark, you never know… Just keep it nearby knowing we can always contact
each other if something comes up.”

  Mark had belly-laughed despite feeling completely washed out. “Once an operative, always an operative! Thanks. No one left behind!” He gave a thumbs up.

  _______________

  “Mark, it’s good to see you again! I’m heartened that your remission has continued,” Stan greeted Mark from his adjustable bed. “Beer’s in the fridge. I apologize for the sneaky-pete routine. I just don’t want us linked in any way. You’ll understand after we’ve talked. I did want to see you and catch up. Now, Mark, I want you to know why you’re really here…”

  Congress must stop overspending.

  _______________

  Almost an hour passed while Stan spoke more to Mark than the reverse. Stan closed his near monologue, “Mark, think about it. Before you go, one favor that I ask regardless of your decision on it: Will you use this burner cell to transmit a text message for me seven days from today? The cell phone has the GPS disabled. Take precautions though: No security cameras around; good disguise; be in a crowd; pull the battery after you send the message. Destroy the throwaway when you can. You know the drill… I just like to go through the protocol to check the ole tradecraft. Brings back good memories!

  “The message is critical. I can’t over-stress the importance of doing this. Here’s the number. The text goes to the Washington Log. It is my legacy to the United States — and the world. Mark, I appreciate you’re doing this. And Mark, I’ll ask another solid. Destroy this other cell phone I just called you with. No links!”

  _______________

  Stan’s memory flashed to still another cell phone. It was the morning after Lem Pfister had snaked the McClain’s toilet. Stan remembered visiting the plumber’s shop where he asked for directions at 7:45 A.M. Cleverly, the unremarkable disguised Stan had put his map down on the counter and placed a throwaway cell directly over the shop’s location on that map. The plumber picked up the cell phone and handed it to Stan’s gloved hand so it did not block their present location on the map. The disguised Stan thanked him and left with the plumber’s fingerprints on the burner phone. That was the cell he had used to call Ralph Betzold at the Log after Congressman Zimmer’s death. Stan had left that burner phone in Pfister’s garbage with the other evidence implicating the plumber in the deaths of Zimmer, Paige, Kelly, and McClain.

  _______________

  “Stan, Stan… you’re drifting off on me, buddy!” Mark’s words broke Stan’s flashback.

  “Sorry, Mark, must be the meds. I’m all right, really… Do you think we’ll still be covert operators in Valhalla? I know you’ve given it some thought.”

  “Stan, I think in Valhalla we’ll review countless ‘tapes’ of the many twists and turns in our earthly lives that would have been for the worse. We’ll see how some of those dreamy druthers would have played out. We’ll constantly and forever be grateful for the life we had. Eternal gratitude, eternal gladitude, if you will. The SEALs say ‘The only easy day was yesterday.’ I say, the best life you get is this one, even if it’s not easy… I’m sorry, you asked for a prayer, and I gave you a sermon.”

  “Mark, since we’re both stared down eternity, I appreciate your perspective. Believe me, I have been doing some soul searching. And I’ve called in the clergy tonight for some help. Your quick take on the hereafter is going to be hard for them to top… So you’re okay with sending the message and phone disposals?”

  “Yeah, I’ll definitely send the message and destroy both burner cells. The other is a big commitment. I should think on that one — for weeks… You say you don’t have that kind of time. I honor that. I don’t want you fretting about my commitment, so you’ve got my word. One special operator to another, I’ll get ‘er done! It is handled. I’m onboard.”

  After awkward goodbyes, Mark donned his black Oakley wraparound sunglasses and black Baltimore Orioles baseball hat. He purposely adopted a slumped posture and casually walked to his car — circuitously, of course.

  Stanley lay in bed sipping his morphine. He mused as he nodded off to sleep: Mission accomplished, and Barry’s still away. Untraceability… I won’t worry about untraceability in Valhalla.

  _______________

  All three clerics arrived on time in the late afternoon. Barry let them in as Stan cranked up the back of his automatic Hill-Rom hospital bed. After a few pleasantries, Stan began, “I really appreciate your coming. I haven’t spent much of my life in reflection. I’ve been what you might call a man of action. At this point, I think you understand why I really need to cover all my bases. You are the ones I wanted for my send off. Did Barry make everything clear?”

  The clerics all nodded in agreement. They were still not yet comfortable with the circumstance. Barry might have been right. Stan was, at the very least, keeping them off-balance.

  “Gentlemen,” Barry broke in, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in the kitchen. Please let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Barry. We’ll try to keep it down,” he snickered and turned to the clergymen. “Before I leave the material world,” Stan went on, “I wanted to thank each of you for all that you have done to make the world a better place. I honor you for your compassionate work.” With a blank affect, the clergymen looked at one another as if to say I thought we were here about you, Stan.

  Stan continued, “While I have been on a somewhat different path than you, all of us in this room have subordinated ourselves to something external, bigger than we are. I think M. Scott Peck would approve — of you, anyway. Will each of you give me your blessing?” Peck’s The Road Less Traveled was one of Stan’s favorites. Stan recalled one of Peck’s tenets is the need for man to be accountable to a Higher Power. He knew the three well-read men understood.

  _______________

  After each had taken about five minutes for an eclectic service, Stan offered, “Your Holinesses and friends, I ask you to join me in a toast. This is kosher Louis Royer XO. You probably know it is a fine cognac distilled in France. You’ll find pleasing tastes of oak, vanilla, and rancio. I hope you enjoy it — premium bottled water if you don’t.” The rabbi then poured each a drink in a tulip-shaped glass, preempting Stan’s reach to do the same. There were crackers and cheese to refresh the taste buds.

  “First and again, I am honored by your gracious presence. Second, you bring great joy to my heart. I could never help but laugh when I heard the timeless joke lead-in: ‘A rabbi, a priest, and a minister walk into a bar…’ I don’t even need to hear the joke. The lead-in itself makes me laugh. Pavlov’s dog?… So I’m laughing, but not laughing at you… Did you every wonder why the rabbi always has to be listed first?” Stan asked rhetorically.

  The rabbi couldn’t help himself, “Why, God’s chosen people, of course!” He winked. Everyone laughed.

  “Now just a minute!” the minister playfully protested. More laughter.

  With a hint of an Irish brogue, the priest led, “May I offer a toast to you, Stan?” His free left hand opened widely toward Stan as he began with a warm smile:

  May you be as free as the wind

  As soft as sheep’s wool

  As straight as an arrow

  That you may journey into the heart of God.

  Stan grinned and added, “To my friends!”

  Everyone sipped the incandescent gold cognac. “Superb!” the rabbi critiqued.

  The minister asked, “Stan, I get covering all your bases. And we’re honored you chose us as umpires, figuratively speaking. What I have been wondering is: Where’s the Buddhist priest?” He laughed at his jest.

  “Thought you might ask. I think my attachments will soon not be a problem,” Stan laughed. The clergymen knew a central theme of Buddhism is that our earthly attachments lead to suffering.

  Stan continued, as the cognac warmed his body and elevated his mood, “I have a present for each of you, which I hope you will use for yourself, for something you have always wanted to have or wanted to do. I just ask that you never discuss his meeting with a
nyone — ever. I’ll trust you with that.”

  Each nicely wrapped box contained $25,000 in cash. The clerics were taken aback at the unexpected gifts and effusive in their thanks.

  Stan replied sincerely, “You are welcome, my friends. Remember the stipulation: for your use, not for your donation. Do me the favor of not declaring that on your taxes? Godspeed!”

  The minister instantly asked, “Hey, who’s giving the blessing here?” The three clergymen chuckled and gave a last brief blessing to Stan before turning to depart.

  The Catholic priest was the last to leave. He started out the door and gracefully reversed his direction. “My son, I sense a confidential discussion would be good for your soul. I think you want to make amends with God. How do you feel about that?”

  “Probably in order… It’s never too late to proselytize, is it, Father?” Stan joked.

  “And I believe God has a sense of humor, too,” the priest came back, nodding. The priest had dealt with hard cases throughout his life.

  Stan took in a deep breath, “How do we begin?”

  “Tell me more about your life — yourself,” the priest began.

  “… I had a troublesome start.” After a staccato beginning, Stan’s words began to flow like like the notes of virtuoso pianist. “I was born out of wedlock. While a sophomore at Ladycliff college in New York, my mother fell in love with a cadet at West Point. He was my biological father. He never knew about me. My mother came from money. Her family whisked her off to Europe early on in her pregnancy. I was born in Geneva, Switzerland. Grew up in upstate New York. Went to private schools. Swam competitively and played soccer as well as lacrosse. Ran cross country. When I was sixteen, I walked in on a priest sexually abusing another younger altar boy.”

  The priest was intrigued, “What happened after that?”

  Stan warmed to the priest’s interest, “The priest and I went for a walk in the woods… He did not come back.” Stan remembered the priest’s groping and his subsequent splaying the priest’s fingers until the priest was on his knees. Stan recalled his elbow shooting into the priest’s eye and shattering the socket. He relived his ankle’s exploding the priest’s scrotum when the offending priest stood thinking the retribution was over. He remembered his punch to the priest’s larynx, the grisly crackling, the collapsed trachea, and the lifeless priest later floating facedown in the Niagara River. Even at age sixteen, Stan sensed the unending pain the abusive priest had perpetrated on his victims. That completely dissipated any guilt Stan might have ever felt.