Custos: Enemies Domestic

by Jake Aaron

  FIRST END

  Alternate Epilogue

  Washington D.C. Vicinity

  January 18

  Stan was pleased with his meetings with Mark Trace and the clergymen. He felt a singular calm throughout his body and mind. This must be closure, he thought. He climbed onto his hospital bed and cranked the back up after supper. He was bone-tired from the few activities that were too much for a body consuming itself. He needed down time. As he watched Covert Affairs on his 32-inch LG flat screen television, a news crawler flashed:

  ACCUSED PLUMBER RELEASED ON REDUCED BAIL. ATTY ARGUES EVIDENCE WEAK; CLIENT BRUTALIZED BY POLICE.

  Stan immediately went to the internet for clarification. The Mac Air on his overbed table indicated Lem Pfister’s trial was still on, but his high-powered attorney claimed that since the tainted lotion came into Congressman McClain’s bathroom independent of Pfister, Lem’s innocence was proven. The other implicating circumstantial evidence be damned. Why, indeed he argued, would Lem be in the bathroom of the Congressman other than to do anything but plumbing. More compelling, Lem’s lawyer contended that Lem had been a victim of police brutality. He produced videos of arresting police guiding Lem into the back seat of a cruiser and at the same time bumping his head. Following were still photos, taken later, of his client’s gaping head wound. The lawyer did not mention that jailed Lem had used a shank to markedly exaggerate his cranial gash. The media sensationalized Lem’s “injury” for circulation and market share. The judicial system caved to media-contrived public hysteria. Lem’s million dollar bail became a more easily achievable ten thousand dollars.

  The news upset Stan’s calmness at first. Then Stan was struck with an idea. He felt a surge of energy that propelled him to don dark clothing, his neck collar, and right middle finger splint — the first for flexibility, the latter two for easy recognition by a watcher. He casually left his apartment to pick up a large rolling suitcase from apartment storage downstairs. Stan worked on more of the plan en route to Pfister’s house. He removed his neck collar and finger splint, as there was was no indication he was being followed. None the less, he took all manner of evasive action — including a circuitous route, occasional doubling back, and doing jack-rabbit starts at left turns on yellow lights.

  A call to Lem’s home land line indicated he was most likely not in, so Stan reconciled himself to observing Lem’s house from his car. After several hours, Stan found himself nodding off. He turned on his radio to listen to Coast to Coast AM to stay awake. Host George Noory was interviewing engineer-author Gordon McKinzie on his book Fatal Ascent. Just as Stan was about to learn what a “space elevator” is, Lem Pfister returned from the bar scene.

  Drunken Lem arrived weaving with his van’s headlights on bright. He fumbled with his automatic garage door opener and eventually was successful in opening the garage door. Unsteadily, he parked his work van at an awkward angle in the garage. He forgot to close the automatic garage door as he entered his house.

  _______________

  Watching Stan’s apartment, a CIA contractor had seen Stan leave his apartment for his car. Lack of time coupled with fear of Stan’s abilities left the watcher with “old school” techniques that boiled down to observing from afar. He was sure the white-collared figure with a white splint on his right hand was Stan, as Stan had been wearing these for several days. He had not expected the debilitated Stan to be leaving his apartment. In short order, he called Bart and Lisa, burner phone to burner phones: “Abort. Scrub for 24. Plan on tomorrow. Same game.” Bart and Lisa had not yet arrived. If he were not a contractor, the watcher would have followed Stan out of dedication; but, as a contractor, he was being paid for specified duties that did not include following Stan. His work was done for the day. He’d start watching again tomorrow at 0600.

  _______________

  Stan gave Lem time to settle into sleep to catch the pedophile even more unaware. After fifteen minutes, he pounded on Lem’s door inside the garage, “ATF! Open up! We have a warrant!” He could hear Lem shout, “What the hell!… Hold up. I’m coming.”

  As Stan shoved his way through the opening door, he knocked Lem to the floor. Lemslammed his head into the tile floor as he fell with a nauseating thud. Dazed Lem struggled to aim his taser at Stan and fired as Stan closed in. Shocked Stan fell to the floor writhing. Haltingly, Lem attempted to get to his knees when Stan punched him in the throat with a four-jointed, half-fist karate punch — with surprisingly less force than his muscle memory expected. Stan cursed his deteriorating physical condition. Lem reeled and retaliated with another shot of electricity into the stunning taser tongs in Stan’s thigh. So much for Stan’s kevlar vest! Stan went down again as Lem gasped for air. Finally, Lem got to his feet again, cocked his foot, and kicked at Stan as Stan tried to get up. Stan managed a slow, late dodge and caught Lem’s boot in his left armpit. Stan shot his fist into Lem’s groin — again with less force than he expected — and haltingly injected the agonized Lem with fentanyl in the right calf to incapacitate the child molester. Haltingly moving, Lem fired another lightning bolt of electricity at his adversary. Both wound up in a prone position in the mudroom.

  Advantaged by being sober, Stan eventually shook off the effects of the three surges ofelectricity. He towered over the anesthetized Lem. As Stan pulled the taser tongs from his thigh, he mused that he had always wondered how it felt to be tased. He laughed, “Good training!” as his CIA trainers had told him after a water boarding class years ago.

  With Lem still unconscious on the floor, Stan cleaned and wiped down surfaces. He was doubly careful because he knew the taser jolts had profoundly affected him. He stuffed Lem into the oversize suitcase he brought in from the garage, leaving the zipper on the ballistic canvas case slightly open for Lem to breathe. He put on clean coveralls and a hat from Lem’s bedroom closet. He loaded the suitcase into Lem’s work van using a ramp. To the neighbors, the van’s night departure looked like just another work call for the around-the-clock plumber.

  Pulling out of the driveway, Stan laughed at his priorities as he ordered a pizza on his cell phone. He purposely raised his situational awareness to compensate for his condition. On more than one occasion, Stan had driven “after a double.” Never had he driven after a triple, and that’s what the taser had been. He was tempted to drive extra slowly to make up for dulled sensibilities. Instead, he forced himself to do exactly the speed limit. The police, he knew, looked for drunks driving too slowly in the wee hours. Ever a student of irony, Stan reflected how fitting it would be if he were driving a Tesla following his near electrocution.

  At his apartment complex parking lot, Stan, wearing his neck collar and right finger brace, met the pizza deliveryman. He had prepaid for the pizza, but he offered the deliveryman a large tip on delivery of the pizza to his third-story apartment in ten minutes — and, by the way, “Wheel the large suitcase up as well.” The neck collar and finger brace spoke for why Stan needed help. Stan explained the ten minutes: He needed time to set up a surprise for a friend who was celebrating making her Weight Watcher goal. The large suitcase, he added, had plumbing tools and sewer-soaked clothes — all requiring cleaning. “One more thing,” Stan smiled, “the suitcase handle is clean. I cleaned it with several alcohol wipes. I’d avoid the innards if I were you.”

  After tipping the pizza deliveryman at his apartment door, Stan unzipped the outsize suitcase. He stripped Lem to his shorts and manipulated Pfister’s body into the Hill-Rom hospital bed with every trick he could imagine. A limp body is always a challenge to move; ask any nurse. Given Stan’s deteriorated condition, it had been a monumental struggle that left him winded and sweating profusely. He flashed to his last days of Ranger school in the Army.

  Next Stan prepared to install a Port-a-Cath in Lem to allow a slow drip of intravenous fentanyl. He watched the installation instructions on the internet again. He was able to follow the directions much to his satisfaction. Insertion is frequently the role of the covert operative, h
e joked to himself.

  With Lem stabilized and unconscious, Stan stealthily proceeded to return Pfister’s van to swap out for his own vehicle. He planned his next day en route. He needed to cancel Barry’s work with an early call and figure out how to signal his potential assassins that he was in his room. While he never picked up on a tail going to and from Lem’s house, he definitely sensed government agents closing in. They had to be. This sixth sense had served him well for so many years.

  Despite all the events of the day, Stan reflected that he felt unusually good, perhaps euphoric. He thought maybe it was adrenaline, but he was amazed that the effect did not wear off, as an adrenaline high inevitably would. In fact, the euphoria was increasing! He definitely felt strangely strong and energetic. As a result, his biggest concern was that he might not be able to sleep when he returned to his apartment. With Lem in Stan’s bed, sleeping on the couch would exacerbate this problem. Taking 5 mg of zolpidem might do the trick. What did he have to lose at this point — except sleep?

  January 19

  Early in the morning Stan left a message on his nurse’s answer phone. “Hey, Barry, I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. A girlfriend from the past popped in last night. She’s a nurse and insists on taking care of me, so you don’t need to come in today or the near future. You can expect a significant early Christmas bonus from me in the mail. Thanks again, Barry!”

  Stan had the rest of the day for planning. As he repacked his go-bag, handling his K-bar knife reminded him of an old flame, Deirdre. Deirdre had given him the legendary knife, with the leather sheath handle, that her Marine grandfather had used in World War II. Stan smiled at the memories. If he hadn’t used it as a spy, he would have had it engraved for show. His attention shifted to the present. To his surprise, he felt strong enough to do basic calisthenics throughout the day. Actually, he felt good enough for some wind sprints. He had to force himself to take several catnaps to prepare for the night’s coming events.

  As night fell, Stan purposely turned lights off and on as he moved through the apartment to show any watcher he was there. He checked the fentanyl drip to keep Lem unconscious overnight. He let the timer turn all lights in his apartment off at 11:30 PM, per usual. He removed the white neck collar and splint on his right middle finger. He put the collar around the neck of comatose Lem. As Stan had foreseen, the neck brace would also conceal Lem’s bruised neck where Stan had punched Pfister in the trachea. Then he put the splint on Lem’s right middle finger. Stan had figured this would also help with an assassin’s cursory target identification — or misidentification. Soon afterward, he opened a window and blew a dog whistle in the likely case his door was being watched. Amidst the diversion of the howling dogs, he slipped out of his apartment, sure that no one saw him. To keep his cover, he left his car in the parking lot as he proceeded to the roof of a nearby apartment complex.

  _______________

  CIA contractors Bart and Lisa were given the go-ahead by the watcher at 2359 hours. They covertly entered Stan’s apartment. The pair swept the room for electronic devices and carefully used their NVGs to avoid waking “Stan.” Bart verified the neck collar and splint on the right middle finger of “Stan.” Bart was grateful that they had the right target. Lisa was supremely grateful that “Stan” was sedated and that he had a Port-a-Cath for her easy injection of a lethal dose of morphine. Bart’s penultimate act was to bag Stan’s toothbrush and hairbrush for DNA identification by the CIA.

  Before the two operatives slipped out of the apartment, Bart checked Lisa’s work. He nodded as he noted “Stan” had neither respiration nor a pulse. Mostly, he was pleased that his protege had learned to move at a confident tempo. Lisa was hitting her stride with deliberate action, where initially she had appeared fitful in execution. His goal was to eventually have her tradecraft as good as his was.

  From a nearby rooftop, Stan used his NVGs to watch the two contractors come and go. He heard the car alarm go off in the nearby parking lot before they left his apartment. He admired that diversion to keep the night security guard elsewhere engaged. He even spotted the watcher eying his apartment and sipping coffee poured from a thermos. Stan had anticipated every move of his adversaries. No one was ever more amused at “his” own death.

  A Company ambulance was on its way to remove the body. For child molester Lem, this was more than a farewell to arms; he was on his way to a crematory. For Stan, it was liberation. As far as the CIA was concerned, he was dead. If the Agency followed protocol, a CIA clean-up crew, masquerading as moving company employees, would be coming, probably early the next day, to remove any and all trace evidence.

  January 20

  The florist deliveryman arrived at the hotel room of Deirdre Stanton and walked confidently through the lobby with no screening by the staff. Deirdre had recently sold her expensive suburban executive home after a distinguished, though prematurely ended, career with the CIA and moved into the Capitol Escape hotel. She enjoyed a high-rise luxury suite with very few domestic chores.

  The deliveryman knocked on her door, “Ms. Stanton, flowers for you!”

  Barefoot Deirdre opened her door after looking through the peephole. The beautiful, petite brunette could have been mistaken for a model. Having been pulled away from her yoga mat, she wore a black Lululemon street bra and a bright pink Lululemon yoga tights. She had the slightest hint of muscles and an air of authority. “Who sent these beautiful roses?”

  “I did,” the florist deliveryman replied.

  Trained to react calmly to the unexpected, Deirdre was uncharacteristically flummoxed. She was at first speechless, then sputtered, “Who ARE you, please?”

  “We were at the Farm together.” He meant Camp Peary, the recruit training site for the CIA. “We had a mission together in Syria. We dated. We were engaged. I was sent short-notice to Lebanon. You went the headquarters route, very successfully, I have heard. Then…” the deliveryman recited matter-of-factly until he was interrupted.

  Deirdre had tears streaming down her cheeks. “Stan, I can’t believe it’s YOU! Come in, come in!” She nearly knocked him over with her longing embrace. He returned the hug enthusiastically, one arm around Deirdre and the other holding the floral vase out to the side. He noticed how physically fit she was as she squeezed him. Same Deirdre, Stan remembered, driven to be at the top of her game in all ways.

  “Stan, sit down. Let me take that vase. You remembered the peach-colored roses! My favorite!… I’ll get us some coffee and whiskey. I remember you like your scotch neat, rocks on the side; coffee black. Do you remember my preferences?”

  Stan smiled, “Same as mine!… I taught you well.”

  “I remember it the other way around, Stan!”

  “Before that remark, I thought you had an eidetic memory, Dee. You remembered everything.”

  “You always were a quick wit, Stan… I think you’ll like the Bruichladdich single malt. It’s unpeated, no smokey taste — from the Isle of Islay in Scotland… Hey, I’m going to order room service. I’m ordering two rare filet mignons, home fries, wild fresh raspberries and cream, and Dom Perignon. You want Tobasco and Heinz catsup on the side. Right?… Your gaping mouth tells me my eidetic memory is back.” Deirdre was accustomed to getting in the last word. Enraptured, Stan shook his head as he smiled. This was a peak experience for the jaded warrior, better than he had imagined. From near death to this in twenty-four hours, life always surprised him. That was what had ultimately made him stick with his line of work: There were always surprises.

  _______________

  Their conversation had been so riveting that neither mentioned leaving the dining room table. “That steak was phenomenal! Do you care for more champagne?” Stan offered and poured to the flute in her outstretched hand. “And the wild raspberries and cream dessert was delightful. It’s my new favorite… Do you still put chocolate syrup on strawberry ice cream?” he asked with playful remembrance.

  “Yes, yes, I do,” she laughed. “Stan, I noti
ce you still add spice to your food before you’ve tasted it.”

  “Dee, you know, you can’t have too much of a good thing!”

  “That’s what you always said… You know, you really look healthful. I can’t believe how good you look. That just doesn’t seem possible with the health issues you’ve told me about. I’m not just saying that. Really!” Deirdre’s facial expression went from playful to intensely sincere.

  “Nice of you to say in any case,” Stan smiled. “Truth be told, I’ve been feeling even better than when I was in remission before. It could be a reflection of my present company.”

  “You charmer! If you think I’ll fall for that, you’re right!” The twinkle in her eyes spoke volumes. She had come a long way from the bureaucratic veneer she wore like armor at the Agency; she had truly molted. His former CIA subordinates would not have recognized the“titanium maiden.”

  Stan took in her welcoming expression with total fulfillment. He had been trained to read micro-expressions as part of interrogation techniques. In a flash, Deirdre had revealed everything he needed to know. They had a promising future — with an inevitable if or two.

  Stan looked pensive. “Seriously, I started feeling so much better after three separate blasts from a taser…”

  “Don’t tell me you volunteered for that!” Deirdre interrupted and looked truly shocked.

  Stan had to laugh at himself. How bizarre what he had just said sounded! Stan sighed, “It’s a long story…” His voice trailed off.

  “You know there are urban legends about lightning curing cancer — in surviving victims,” the well-read Deirdre added. “I wonder and pray that’s what has happened here.”

  “I have heard that, too. Tasers are supposed to deliver about 1200 volts at roughly an average of 2 milliamperes or so, the internet says. Relatively high voltage, low amperage in a short burst. Lightning, comparatively, has extremely high voltage as well as amperage, also in a short burst… They’re different is some respects, but basically both are literal shocks to the system. Who knows? I guess we’ll never know the facts on either form of electricity curing cancer with scientific certainty. Not a lot of folks volunteering for human trials — of either the taser or lightning!… I will remain optimistic and, at least, in remission. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that.”