Custos: Enemies Domestic

by Jake Aaron

  Stan continued from true memories. It felt like a major departure from the false memories he had internalized to build histories for his “legends,” his various undercover identities. “Several months later I joined the Army. I went to Ranger training and jumped with the 82nd Airborne Division. After that, I was a career CIA covert operative.”

  The priest knew he was connecting with Stan, “Many operations like that with the priest?” “That was my life. No remorse. When I was young, I believed there was some kind of cosmic scorecard where everything counted. I worried about past, present, and future — probably too much about past mistakes. To survive, I think, I learned to stop dwelling on the past, to live in the present and look ahead. As a field agent, I realized worrying about the past could get me killed.”

  “Having second thoughts now?… Thinking, as Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living?” The priest furrowed his brow like a closed caption on his words.

  “Not so much… For years I have had this recurring dream — nightmare, really. I am the sole guard of the castle. A roaring mob approaches, looting and rioting. I am alone fighting to hold off the horde with my sword and shield when a giant dark, cloaked figure confronts me. The evil, shadowy figure is strangely ringed with a glowing white aura. He holds out a Bible and says, ‘Thou shall not kill!‘ as he raises his sword to slay me… It’s like a Zen koan designed to challenge my understanding of something critical… My duty is to defend the castle, yet…”

  “Do you think the specter represents the priest who took you into the woods, Stan?”

  “That’s one way to look at it. I don’t think the figure is my conscience. I think the dream itself might be about my lifelong struggles. Another view could be that the dark phantom is the Antichrist using a simple absolute against me in a world of complexities. I’ve always felt that pacifist leaders and populist politicians, for example, actually are purely power seekers in disguise, attempting to manipulate the masses with any ‘feel good’ tool. I think those who automatically denounce anything violent are the useful idiots of the powerful.”

  “Do you still have the dream?”

  “I do. It never went anywhere until last night.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “I pulled out a SIG-Sauer P228 in my dream — instead of my usual sword — and eliminated the dark specter with three quick bursts. I awoke with a remarkable sense of calm and fulfillment. I still feel the exhilaration of the outcome, as if it actually occurred. In fact, when I awoke, it felt more real than this world.”

  “So where does that leave you?”

  “I guess I need to rationalize my life with something external to myself. A lesson from the Bhagavad Gita has been my usual fallback — maybe a rationalization. I have been true to myself. I have always used my skills to the best of my ability — done my duty as a trained warrior, never lost sight of that. I think it has been for the good of the the United States, as well as the world, if I may be so grandiose. Even since retiring from the Company, I have served.

  “Having served abroad almost all my life, I was shocked to come home in retirement and realize the country I had lived to protect, had changed so much for the worse. The values I was raised on had morphed significantly and swiftly from achievement and a work ethic toward unearned entitlements and indulgence. There is a haunting naivete about survival as a free nation and world power. We are enslaved by the shackles of political correctness which prevent honest dialogue and free speech. We can’t even utter ‘illegal alien’ when it fits. For God’s sake, excuse me Father, we’re afraid to call suicide bombers ‘terroritsts.’ If the United States were a fledgling, it would undoubtedly not fly when shoved out of the nest.

  “It is very strange to go head-to-head with communist regimes abroad, only to find that the homeland itself is climbing the ladder of socialism that leads to communism. I feel betrayed. If I were someone else, someone normal — so to speak, I’d be screaming out loud and wailing about the craziness of it all. I’ve learned to repress my feelings. It’s a survival skill in my line of work… But I realize that I am angry about the direction my country has taken and the tragic loss of the birthright our future generations should have.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My grandparents are deceased. My mother and adoptive father died in a car crash.”

  “You must have inherited at least part of the family fortune.”

  “My folks lost it all in the dot-com bubble.”

  “What about your biological father? Have you ever met him?”

  “Whenever I talked about trying to meet him, my mother always told me not to unravel the tapestry. ‘We are happy now,’ she would say. ‘Your biological father, I’m sure, is happy. Pulling that loose string on the tapestry could ruin everyone’s beautiful life. Look ahead, always look ahead.’ I was very close to my mother, so I honored her words by not reuniting with my biological father for years. Eventually, I adopted her wisdom of looking ahead.

  “I did not even know who my biological father was until the reading of my mother’s will. She left me a sealed envelope revealing his identity and reminding me don’t unravel the tapestry. That seems almost perverse — giving me the name but asking no contact, except that my mother was very wise. I think she knew that some medical anomaly, for instance, might require my knowing who he is.

  “Many years later I did meet him. I tracked him down. I did not identify myself as his son when we spoke. I honored my mother’s wish. I think he would be proud of my life, though. I know I respect him and his life… He told me to read Job in the Bible.

  “I discovered the lesson of Job: Don’t feel sorry for yourself, no matter how bad you think your lot. In the scheme of an infinite universe, each of us finite creatures has very limited understanding. Even a short miserable life is a gift we did not earn, as a friend recently reminded me… By the way, I survived torture in Lebanon by chanting in my mind, “Yea, though He slay me, yet I will trust Him.”

  “It seems that much of life has made you an ‘outsider,’” the priest summed up.

  “Says the man of an exclusive order — forbidden to mingle freely with over half of mankind or personkind, as they say today,” Stan turned the tables, gesturing toward the priest and smiling. It was less of a confrontation than a gesture of empathy and rapport.

  “Seriously, and not to be offensive, my brothers in faith tell me their confessionals are filled with fatherless men whose wounds never heal. I’m sure the stigma of bastard must have affected you as a youth,” the priest kindly replied.

  “That turned out to be an asset. I had a great stepfather — no alienation there, and no one around me ever called me bastard for birth reasons. When adversaries called me that for other reasons, it gave me strength. It was my private joke: ‘Little do you know’ I laughed inside. Being a bastard was a great lesson in reframing the vagaries of life. You might call that a blessing, Father.”

  The priest smiled, “Your faith may be stronger than mine, my son. Bless you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” He crossed himself with his right hand half a foot away from his chest. He leaned forward to touch Stan’s shoulder. “You… I could speak with for hours, maybe days. My honor to know you!” The priest’s eyes welled up in tears.

  “Go in peace, Stan. Go with God!” Then, eerily in the scant light of the room, the dark-shadowed priest appeared to be surrounded by a radiant white aura as the bright entranceway lamp’s LED light spilled around him. The priest, unintentionally haunting, reminded Stan, “Thou shalt not kill!” nodding at the five-eighths-full brandy vessel and bottle of oral morphine.

  Stan felt a profoundly cold chill shoot up his scalp. His body involuntarily reacted to the shock of the image too close to his nightmare. He tried to regroup, “… Thanks, Father. My spirit is refreshed, but my flesh is weak. Please tell Barry he can come back tomorrow. I need to rest… He’s still in the kitchen area, I think,” Stan crossed himself as the priest turned,
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…”

  As the apartment door closed behind Barry and the priest, Stan used his Mac Air computer to pull up Iz singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” on a his iTunes. He contemplated recent events. He had capitalized on Mort Zimmer’s natural death. Lynn Paige, Ron Kelly, and John McClain, unfortunate enemies of the Republic, were eliminated for the greater good. Hap Johnson saw the light, with a little help. Stan had helped the hand of karma in implicating Lem Pfister to sidetrack the hunt for Custos. Stan felt good about his tradecraft, especially since he knew that more activity inevitably jeopardizes the operator in the Monte Carlo game of operative life. His declining health had jeopardized the Orlando mission in compromising many of his professional standards. Stan shook his head. A healthy Stan would have driven back roads to and from Florida, devoid of surveillance cameras. Taking the interstate was just one of several compromises the dying spy had made recently — like going to Christmas dinner at Walter Reed and using his real first name. With his time running out, surely he should have some occasional enjoyment.

  All in all, he felt at peace. He picked another iTunes song that he had copied multiple times to play over and over. Stan took a quantum of morphine and drank from the brandy bottle. “Yea, though He slay me, yet I will trust Him,” he began to chant.

  _______________

  The two CIA contract operatives arrived at 1:00 A.M. in the morning. They waited in their car until the apartment complex security guard headed away from Stan’s apartment. Their partner had verified Stan’s lights going out at 11:30 P.M., possibly on timer. Bart Stewart and Lisa Shields had light carry-on bags and used airline ticket stubs showing this evening’s arrival at Dulles International from JFK. Lisa had papers to show she was Stanley’s unmarried sister. She would claim Bart was her fiance if asked. Both had false IDs. Their cover: need to check on Stanley’s health. Neither cared that this job was on behalf of the government and their last job was against the government.

  Bart appeared to drop a key at Stan’s door and pretended to fumble for it while handily picking the lock. Lisa carried an aerosol can of a fentanyl, the powerful anesthetic, to incapacitate any potential challenger.

  Bart was glad to have Lisa as a partner. He had hand-picked Lisa for her quickness and toughness. He had trained her in the finer points of tradecraft. Lisa would have made a great SEAL, if women were allowed, he thought. Yes, she had what it takes to be among the roughly 20% who survive the initial training. Lisa had learned to control her temper through the transcendental meditation he had recommended. She was mentally strong enough to endure the critical hypothermic hurdle. The only question would be whether her physical hard-wiring and exceptionally low body fat might predispose her to dysrhythmias or other pathologies of hypothermia. In any case, he knew her hypothetical SEAL candidate peers would be eager to huddle with her following cold ocean swims — strictly for warmth, mind you Yeah, he smiled.

  The latex-gloved pair stealthily moved into the studio apartment without any lights. Its starkness did not surprise them, given Stan’s condition. That made initial movements easy until they could don their night vision goggles. These state-of-the-art NVG’s offered excellent resolution and flexibility in adapting to changing light conditions. Older versions subjected users to blooming if a bright light unexpectedly came on — a potentially fatal defect for covert operatives. Keeping incandescent lights off seemed wise to avoid waking Stan or causing any neighbor’s potential call to the police. The very watchful neighbors in the apartment complex were extremely protective of one another. Lately Stan seemed much a creature of habit as far as sleep goes, their intel indicated.

  Out of habit, Bart carried a backup Marine-issue tactical flashlight with two new AA lithium batteries. The Streamlight Sidewinder IR has adjustable LED lamps for covert lighting or bright lighting. The strobe function offers the capability to stun an unforeseen adversary temporarily. He valued the nearly unbreakable polycarbonate lens and the nylon case’s survivability. On a SEAL snatch-and-grab operation in the Philippines, he had knocked out an active terrorist leader with the same flashlight. Sweet, sweet the memories — Bart reveled in his non-traditional life.

  The only sound in the studio apartment was from iTunes repetitively playing the Beatles tune: A Little Help From My Friends. This irony gave Bart cold shivers, though he admired the music. Stan’s taste in alcohol wasn’t bad either. Bart was tempted to indulge in a swig of the expensive French cognac. Three things stopped him: his professionalism, the idea that Stan might have mixed in a chemo drug, and the bottle’s total emptiness. Transitioning from obvious to hidden, the two swept the apartment for other electronics. Neither found evidence of hidden cameras, microphones, or alarms.

  Stanley appeared to be asleep in his hospital bed. Also on Stan’s overbed table was a Mac Air, the source of the iTunes. Stan pointed at Lisa in the dark, then pointed his open hand toward the computer’s mouse. He signaled with his hand so Lisa would see the carefully placed vaseline-coated thread paralleling the side of the mouse; part teaching, part alerting her to the fact that they were dealing with a professional. The pro had used this low tech, tried-and-true method to know whether there had been an intruder using his computer.

  Bart looked at the white neck collar on the figure in bed. It indicated they had the right person. The second verification was the splint on the right middle finger. It was alway good to verify taking out the correct target. Bart remembered the Mossad fiasco in Lillehammer, Norway, where an innocent Moroccan waiter was mistaken for a wanted Arab terrorist. Lesson learned from history.

  Intel had informed Bart and Lisa that Stanley had been wearing a white neck collar and finger splint recently. The CIA had warned against putting tracking devices around Stanley or anything intrusive, so the neck brace and splint were welcome markers. Stanley had been a legend at the Agency. Accordingly, the team following Stan was extremely leery of being found out. It did, however, seem peculiar for the savvy covert operator to make himself stand out by wearing the white collar and splint.

  Bart and Lisa moved closer toward the supine bare-chested Stan. Bart readied the aerosol can of fentanyl in case Stanley woke. Lisa hung a bag of saline solution and gently connected to a Port-a-Cath, a medical device already in Stan’s trunk for previous intravenous chemotherapy. Then she injected a lethal dose of morphine into the bag.

  Waiting for the morphine to work, Bart and Lisa gave the apartment a once-over. They made sure they were securing the most critical traces of Stan’s recent activities. They retrieved several boxed throwaway cell phones. Finally, Bart shutdown Stan’s laptop. It joined the cell phones in Lisa’s travel bag. It was a nice change of pace not to have to rush an exit.

  Bart checked Stanley’s pulse. There was none. Best to leave a convincing case of euthanasia/suicide until a Company-contracted EMT arrived to sweep the body away for streamlined processing and cremation. Lisa left three used needles and three empty morphine boluses on the overbed table — all with Stan’s fingerprints. Later the whole apartment would be thoroughly sanitized.

  Mission seemingly accomplished, Bart nodded to a watching Lisa. Near the door, Bart used a burner phone to ring the cell phone of the outside partner. The partner used his fob to set off his car’s alarm on the far side of the large apartment complex for a diversion to lure the security guard away from Stan’s apartment. Bart and Lisa took off their night vision goggles and put them in their travel bags. They quietly exited. Given the circumstances, the truth would not have surprised the contractors: They had just successfully “killed” a dead man. They did not see the empty bottle of morphine in the folds of Stan’s blanket.

  _______________

  Eight days later, Director of the FBI Sam Vincent read the Washington Log headline:

  CUSTOS: “STOP CONGRESS!”

  The article indicated that Ralph Betzold had received the text yesterday. He had been the initial recipient of a text from Custos after Congressman Zimmer’s de
ath. The text was brief:

  RALPH, SCRUTINY SHOULD REMAIN ON CONGRESS. CONGRESS MUST STOP OVERSPENDING.—IBID—CUST0S

  Ralph insisted ibid meant the same source as the one before, which would be Custos. He remembered the Latin meaning from research papers in high school and college. He smiled wryly at Special Agent Bridger, “I also know it was not a Custos pretender sending the message. I never mentioned that the original text had a zero in the name Custos instead of an ‘oh,’ as in ‘oscar.’ I thought someone in the electronic surveillance hierarchy would have picked up on that… I guess we only see what we’re looking for.”

  Looking triumphant, Ralph exulted, “It has to be Custos! Custos lives!” No matter that newspaperman Ralph was closing in on his Pulitzer as the narrative advanced. From the grame, Stan had a publicist.

  The newspaper headline was no surprise to the FBI Director, since the Log’s editor had called him about the apparent Custos message the night before. Sam had released the editor from the hold on using Custos as a source, something the White House had informally done just over a month ago. The information from the Log, however, had come somewhat as a surprise to Sam Vincent. He knew the CIA Director had eliminated Stanley Bricker a week before. Custos is dead, long live Custos, Director Vincent thought. Who could have sent this message?

  Sam Vincent smiled at the sequence of events. Custos had made himself a legend saving the Republic, at least for now. If I had a son, FBI Director Sam Vincent reflected, I would hope he would be as smart and brave as Stanley Bricker.