Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  “Apology accepted. I am going to dispatch Jeffery Southem and his team to Israel this afternoon and have him call on the Palestinian authorities tomorrow. He can spend a couple of days with the Saudis. Maybe he can spread a little oil on the troubled waters. Miracles do happen.”

  “It would seem that we need one, sir.”

  The president looked down at the large pile of papers in his inbox, and the DCIA gave a small nod and left.

  As he left the room, President Storebridge pushed a console button and said, “Sally Rose, please get The secretary of State and Daniel ben Moises in for a meeting before noon.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Hunter’s anger from his dreams had dissipated by the time he and John I completed breakfast. The residual adrenalin energy generated by his emotional outburst and angry pronouncement in his room lingered as the two men did a double long, double difficult run which left both of them trying to catch their breaths.

  “What’s on for today, John?” Hunter asked when he could talk.

  Let’s do a half day’s worth of gunnery practice, then, this afternoon will be dedicated to some sophisticated martial arts training. I think you’ll actually learn something today, my friend.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The shooting went well with Hunter’s growing expertise showing the benefits of practice. After lunch, the dogs barked; and one of the paramilitary guards knocked on the front door.

  “Enter,” said John.

  The guard opened the door and admitted a diminutive oriental woman and a burly muscular man.

  “Mai Ling, nice to see you again. Thanks for coming all the way out here. Lior, ready for a little brutality?”

  Mai Ling Chang bowed slightly, and Lior Batushansky nodded.

  John looked at Hunter, “Mai Ling is the most deadly knife fighter in the world. Lior is the most deadly hand-to-hand fighter you never heard of in the world. He is the grand master of Krav Maqa and comes to us compliments of the Mossad.”

  Hunter shook each of the fighters’ hands.

  “We should probably get to work with Mai Ling first so you aren’t too tired and sore to throw knives and to learn the delicacies of knife work—incidentally, an art called ‘lightening and silent death’ in Mandarin.”

  The four walked to the rear of the house where a set of four targets were set up at a distance of ten meters from where they stood. Each target was a cut-out of a human figure, all assuming different postures. Mai Ling opened a case of double edged throwing knives and laid them out on a folding table which had been set up by the staff earlier in the morning. She positioned them in an overly neat row, then behind the precisely engineered throwing knives, she lined up two rows of knives of assorted sizes and shapes. She picked up four of the throwing knives and swiftly and effortlessly threw each of the four hitting each target cutout figure in the center of the neck. She then picked four knives at random from the assorted size knives and threw them at lightening speed into the left side of the chest of the target.

  She turned to Hunter and said, “Now, you.”

  Hunter had had no experience throwing knives. He was pretty sure that he was about to play the fool. He picked up four of the razor sharp throwing knives gingerly to spare himself the ignominy of cutting himself. He drew back and threw the first one missing the target altogether. Mai Ling giggled quietly and placed her four delicate fingers over her mouth. The second throw put a knife in the left thigh. The third clunked handle end first into the target’s abdomen. The fourth actually stuck point first in the area of the target’s solar plexus. Hunter shook his head in embarrassment and looked at delicate Chinese woman for an okay to proceed. She nodded yes.

  He picked up a Bowie knife and bounced it off the target. A small bladed Sgian Dubh kilt knife hit the target mid-sternum point first.

  “That’s a little better,” he thought.

  His third throw was a forward curved black bladed Smithwess bush hog Kukri knife; it was a clumsy, ill-balanced weapon, a poor choice under the circumstances, and was poorly thrown. The knife handle and blade landed horizontally on the right side of the frame holding the target. Hunter winced. For his fourth throw, he picked a German Fallkniven military survival knife—sighted carefully—drew back his arm and made a quick forward flexion of his wrist pointing his finger at the neck of the fourth target. He was dead on and heaved a sigh of relief. He was sweating.

  Mai Ling clapped daintily while wearing a faint enigmatic smile. Hunter grinned sheepishly at her and lowered his head in self-effacement. John I roared in laughter. Hunter blushed, and that made John laugh all the harder.

  “Okay, smart guy, let’s see you do better.”

  He should not have said such a silly thing. John I made a small courtesy bow to Mai Ling, picked up four throwing knives and in less than four seconds centered four points in four vulnerable target necks. He picked an assortment of four different shaped knives: a French dagger, a Camillus medium boot knife, and an Indo-Malay Kris ceremonial knife. The first hit the target mid-left thorax; the second impaled the right mid-chest; the third hit the solar plexus dead center.

  John I then smiled impishly at Hunter; and, like a billiards hustler, said, “Fourth target, Adam’s apple.”

  Hunter groaned aloud.

  The knife flew as precisely as if it had been on a guide wire.

  “Now, secret agent, allow me to demonstrate the proper technique of throwing a knife successfully,” Mai Ling said, all business.

  She chose only throwing knives this time and showed Hunter how to hold the knife, how to aim it, how hard to throw it, and how to follow through. He was able to begin hitting the target in lethal parts even if not exactly as precisely as he would have wanted after the sixth throw.

  “You will have to practice. I will see you again tomorrow to monitor your progress.”

  She smiled kindly, made a graceful about face and walked back to her waiting vehicle.

  “Doesn’t look like this is going to be my forte,” Hunter observed, glumly.

  “We are going to practice an hour a day for two months,” John I said. “You’ll be an expert before then. Have some faith in yourself, my friend.”

  Hunter shrugged.

  While Hunter had been intent on learning to throw knives, big Lior Batushansky had been to the house and carried back three duffel bags of heavy protective gear. Each of the three men donned the gear which looked like jointed Kevlar football padding by the time the parts were all in place.

  “We will play rough,” Lior said, his voice betraying that his native tongue was Hebrew despite his short-cropped red hair.

  Hunter was pretty sure that Lior meant what he said.

  He was right. For the next two hours, Lior pummeled, threw, kicked, bruised, and battered Hunter and John I alternatively. Hunter had previously thought that either he or John I was the best fighter pound-for-pound that he knew. Now he knew different. It was full contact all the way and all of the time. The only breaks came when Lior pointed out the reason for Hunter’s errors and even those of John I. By the end of the session Hunter was so tired that he could no longer really defend himself, and his battered lateral thighs could hardly hold him upright.

  Lior said, “You are not in good enough shape. You should be able to fight successfully two men for three hours. Until you can, you are most vulnerable. I come from a land that has been shown no mercy. Meeting Palestinians mano-a-mano is a real test. When a Jew and a Hamas killer go into a dark room together, only one comes out. Before we are done with you—my friend—you will be the only one who is still standing. I think I am a good fighter; in fact, I have proved it. However, you know much; and I predict that by the end of our work together, you will be able to beat me. At least, you will have no match in the terrorist world. You won’t be learning any moves sanctioned by the Marquis of Queensbury, and your reflexes won’t allow you to underestimate or be a single step behind any actual or potential enemy. You will not survive if you do not learn all I know. S
ee you tomorrow and every day thereafter while you are vacationing at The Farm.”

  He gave a friendly nod, and walked alone back to the house.

  “I can’t imagine surviving a daily beating like that one today.”

  “Lior assures me that this is the only way to become the best. You and I have had some good work-outs, but this has been the hardest fighting I’ve done outside actual combat, and I never went up against anyone like Lior. Think of it as a special opportunity.”

  Hunter gave John I a weak ‘I’ll-try’ smile.

  It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and they realized their hunger. The two men—who were developing a real friendship—trudged back to the house and made a bountiful proteinaceous lunch and had a nap to restore themselves for a brief shooting practice. For the rest of the time Hunter spent with John I, their daily routine became one of cross country running, big meals, hours of shooting, hand-to-hand combat, knife-throwing, and a late afternoon teaching session from one of a variety of experts in every aspect of clandestine and violent life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  White House Oval Office, 1118

  Present: POTUS, SECRETARY OF STATE, ISRAELI AMBASSADOR

  Secretary of State Southem and the president met briefly at eleven o’clock to prepare President Storebridge for his meeting with the Israeli ambassador. The meeting took fifteen minutes and did not result in a meeting of the minds of the two strong-willed American leaders. Southem left in time to avoid running into Ambassador ben Moises. Sally Rose Matthews waited carefully until Southem was gone from the West Wing before escorting ben Moises into The president’s office.

  “How are we to deal with this recent set of unfortunate circumstances, my friend?” The president asked as soon as the ambassador was seated.

  General ben Moises was not at all fond of euphemisms, but let it go.

  “You have your problems, and we have ours, sir. Yours, it seems to me, absolutely require an upgrade in your own security procedures and a hardening of the physical defenses. I know Secretary Southem has a different position: that heightening efforts sends a negative signal, but Israel has been in the position of having to do so for as long as she has existed. However, more importantly, your nation must devise a plan to get better intelligence and to do some pre-emptive strikes at the heart of your enemies if you are going to avoid another all-out war.”

  “You know as well as I do that we have this pesky rule against racial profiling which is not a problem Israel shares. My hands are tied there. We also have become a nation of doves, and any president who overreacts is a political goner. We do have a program which will likely bear fruit, but we are not ready to implement it yet. When we do, I am confident that it will be effective. The things we have planned will demonstrate our capacity to get at the terrorists where they live and work and will strike fear into the hearts of even the most hardened of those killers.”

  “The Sheep Dog Program,” ben Moises said to himself.

  He had known about it for a month, but the Mossad had not been able to get enough information about it to do the ambassador any good in negotiations with the Americans.

  He said to the president, “Mr. President, I am directed to tell you that Israel has lost its patience. We have our own sources, and we will be putting appropriate lex talionis measures within the week. We cannot and will not allow any of these atrocities to go unanswered.”

  “Please encourage restraint, General. No one wants to ignite the spark that propels the entire region into another true war.”

  “I’ll convey your wishes, Mr. President. However, our answer will become apparent within days. Our many enemies will feel a sting that they will remember for some time. In addition, the IDF is on red alert. Security is going to be the tightest it has been in decades, and the Mossad’s in-place operatives around the world will become active as never before.”

  “I wish you and your country every good thing, my friend. Keep the faith with us. Our response will be quieter and less apparent, but I am indeed confident that it will have a meaningful impact.”

  The president noted that he had his fingers crossed when he said it. General ben Moises and President Storebridge shook hands and ended the meeting. Both were dissatisfied but realized that they were in a quandary, and the best solution was not yet apparent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  April

  Hunter Caulfield’s routine now consisted of a brutal morning of running, weight lifting, and mixed martial arts training followed by a full afternoon of shooting and knife throwing, and evenings occupied with didactics from John Smith I regarding a wide range of spy craft: encryptions, codes, safe houses, exit strategies, and who to contact—how and where. John’s lecture program was punctuated with fascinating practical special courses in the finesse of spying, betrayal, and the art of killing—at a distance and up close and personal—essentially the gamut of man’s inhumanity toward man for king and country.

  Two days after Mai Ling Chang and Lior Batushansky met with and intimidated both Hunter and John I, a curious, somewhat effeminate, scholarly man with 1950s horn rim glasses and wearing a heavily starched white button-down shirt, a black suit, and a very narrow tie suited to the same era, arrived after supper for that night’s and the next four night’s didactic sessions.

  John I introduced the man to Hunter, “Hunter, may I present Dr. Heinz Bühler-Rothe. Dr. Rothe this is John Smith. I’m sure you have heard of him.”

  Dr. Rothe laughed politely and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. You are the thirteenth John Smith I have had the pleasure of teaching at The Farm. Either the name is common, and I am seeing a more than statistically probable number of men of your same name, or you come from a large, unimaginative family.”

  Hunter laughed with the man who—for all of his fussy appearance—had a fetching sense of humor and eyes that gleamed with intelligence reflecting a brain full of a wealth of valuable information.

  “Shall we get started?” asked John I.

  “Indeed. Could I get one of you fine physical specimens to help me bring in my teaching materials.”

  “I’ll do it, John, why don’t you help the good doctor start setting up.”

  Dr. Rothe sat at a long rectangular government-issue steel table looking across at his two pupils. He spread an assortment of vials, partially filled syringes, a cupful of snails, three academic volumes on poisons and antidotes, and a three inch high stack of published acad-emic papers across the table.

  Breaking his attention away from the collection of the tools of his trade and his apparent paramount interest, he said, “Johns…I am a poisoner. But that is false modesty. I am, in fact, the foremost expert on poisons in the world. I am an eminently practical man as well; and I will convey to you the best, most effective, the most cunning, and the least detectable toxins known to history and modern science.” He looked into Hunter’s eyes. “I have prepared a collection of useful tools and materials for you to take on your adventures. Our purpose for the better part of a week will be to acquaint you with these deadly things. I consider it better that the evil-doers should perish for your purpose rather that that you sicken or die by an accident of your own making.”

  Hunter nodded his agreement.

  “Please take notes. When you leave this august training facility, I will have encoded copies of what you have deemed pertinent plus what I consider pertinent for you to take with you. First, we will learn about snails, frogs, newts, snakes, and fish. Take notes please; we have a lot to cover.

  “All of the some 500 cone sea snails, family Conidae, are poisonous. The creatures of concern are the large ones—especially those whose various conotoxins are lethal—including a venom that contains a pain-reducing toxin which the snail uses to pacify the victim before immobilizing and then killing it. Some cone snail venoms—the ones we have an interest in—contain tetradoxin—TTX, for short—the paralytic sodium channel blocker neurotoxin found in pufferfish, the blue-ringed octopus, and the Oregon rough
-skinned newt, which are about as deadly a set of creatures as ever evolved. We have taken a few liberties with the components of the toxins and voila!, we have produced a toxin that—unlike the naturally occurring peptide—when it is rubbed on the skin or ingested in amounts comparable to a droplet the size of a pencil eraser results in death before the victim takes two steps…You no doubt know of the vicious little Vietnamese green tree snake?”

  Hunter nodded his unpleasant memory of the notorious two-step snake up close and personal from his stay in the lovely jungles of Viet Nam and Cambodia.

  “That is, in fact, a myth; but this toxin is quite literally the real thing. You have a vial of it. Don’t make a mistake and get some on yourself—no fingers in the mouth or rubbing your eyes; those are fatal errors. In addition to oral or transdermal installation, the newly improved conotoxin can be injected, just as the nasty marine gastropod mollusks do with their ghastly tooth that they use like a harpoon. Makes one shudder. Since the worst creatures are endemic to California, we are able to harvest a truly impressive number of poison sacs; so, you can be downright wasteful; but I remind you again, you can only be careless once.

  “In this second amber-glass stoppered vial, we have the batrachotoxin of Phyllobates terribilis, the beautiful golden poison frog native to the Pacific coast of Colombia that has been used to poison arrow heads by the indigenous hunters for centuries. The toxin is a particularly poisonous steroidal alkaloid secreted from the frog’s skin glands. A minute amount of less than 140 micrograms is sufficient to kill a 70 kilogram man. That is about three grains of ordinary table salt. This file contains enough poison to kill about 500 men, give or take. One need only place a drop of the colorless, tasteless, viscous liquid in an alcoholic drink or on the tongue of a sleeping person, and the victim will experience almost immediate neuromuscular transmission blockade followed by muscular and respiratory paralysis and a quiet death. Unless the toxin is specifically suspected, the cause of death will be written off as being of natural origin such as a heart attack and further investigation will produce such negative findings that the poison will not be suspected.