“Because it is a cheap thing to give up, Gerald,” Jeremy Southem broke in. “Let’s be candid. It is hardly a ‘program’. We all pretty much know we are talking about one man who gets some good but anonymous help. We could just cancel the effort and bring the man home. The Iranians would see the cessation of mysterious and highly effective killings and know that we have honored our part of the bargain.”
For the first time, the vice-president chimed in, “Hold on a minute. We created a monster. When things were going well, we liked our monster. Now, we have to look at this man as a soldier; and we have to recognize that—like any other soldier—he is expendable if it serves the greater good. Mr. President, I have to tell you, this man is a ticking time-bomb if he ever gets back to the U.S. and out of our control. Can you imagine him having a special on Fox News? I am quite certain that this administration would fall if he were to be allowed to tell what he knows. It is not out of the question that some of us in this room would go to prison. Picture Richard Nixon. Try and answer the inevitable question: ‘Mr. President, what did you know and when did you know it?’ You and I would be sitting there with egg on our faces and saying something lame like, ‘I am not a crook’.”
The president’s countenance registered the impact of his V-P, Douglass Carter’s, salient observation.
DCIA Lang responded, “This man is a soldier. It is against everything this country stands for to throw a man who has served honorably to the wolves. That said—from a practical point of view—he cannot be allowed to live. Let’s face that fact. He knows where all of the skeletons are buried. He knows who did what and when, and he can tarnish the reputation of the United States of America irreparably if he gets angry and decides to do so. We could not watch him all of the time forever. If you elect to terminate the Sheep Dog program, he has to disappear without a trace.”
“How about something like the WitSec program?” DFBI Thompson asked.
“You know as well as I do that WitSec doesn’t change the basic character of criminals. They are their own worst enemies. The program has a pot full of failures to its credit. They are embarrassing, but a disgruntled Sheep Dog out there someplace who decides to rat would be a national catastrophe. We cannot leave that to chance. The CIA would be severely damaged, and we cannot afford that in a world full of external enemies,” the DCIA argued.
“We are going to be adamant about not granting full recognition,” Southem said, “so, we can’t try and argue everything else down. Sheep Dog is the least valuable asset on the list. He’ll have to go, as distasteful as it is to all of us.”
The president called for a vote, item by item. After the discussion, the result was predictable; the first seven passed quickly, and item 8 was unanimously rejected.
Before adjournment, Gerald Lang turned to his ADCIA and said loudly enough for everyone in the room to here, “Oliver, you need to take care of this.”
“But, Director, he’s my friend. We go back a long ways. He trusts me.”
“That’s the very reason why you have to do it. Sheep Dog is not a man to go down easily. He will have to be lured and set up. It’s nasty, but it comes with the territory of your office.”
Oliver Prentiss thought about resigning. He thought about refusing. He thought about making an all out effort to shift the job to some one else. He thought about trying to persuade his superiors that Hunter Caulfield would keep his mouth shut for the rest of his life and keep the secrets.
However, what he said was, “I’ll take care of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Glen Gabler drove Sheep Dog to the airport. They talked very little on the way, except that Gabler told the incredulous Sheep Dog about yesterday’s attack by Israel. He gave Sheep Dog a sincere thanks for bringing Musab Sarayrah Abdulmutallab to him and letting him have all of the credit. It was an important coup—Gabler knew—and the chance of a lifetime.
“I owe you big time, buddy. If you ever need a friend, I’ll be it.”
“Thanks, Glen. You’re a good man. Just keep fighting the good fight.”
The Air France flight to Orly International Airport in Paris was pleasant and restful. The French still served meals on board, and in First Class, Sheep Dog dined like a prince. He caught a cab to Montmartre and had the driver let him out in front of the Basilique Sacré-Coeur. He walked the winding short block to his hotel, L’Ermitage Sacre Couer—an elegant hill-top mansion-turned-guesthouse on Rue Lamarck—and checked in. The hotel was a classy bed-and-breakfast place, and his room was located on the fifth floor with a “face the Basilica” view. The hotel offered a “face Paris” view as the only other alternative; but his room had already been booked by Oliver Prentiss; and Sheep Dog had no complaint.
All twelve of the rooms in the family-owned B&B were artistically-minded guestrooms. Each room was papered with English flower-print fabrics and furnished with handcrafted beds, armoires, tables, and cut glass lamps dating from the early 1900s. Each room had a slightly different décor; but all were designed to charm even the most finicky guest; and Sheep Dog felt at home in his. The guest-house’s nod to the modern man—at least in Sheep Dog’s room—was deep plush synthetic French-made wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpet was so soft that he made no sound as he crossed to set his bags on the luggage holder under the window. The room—like the hotel—was otherwise simple: No TV, no elevator, and no smoking. All rooms were equipped with standard tiled bathrooms, his with a blue and grey design of French countryside silhouettes. There was a narrow shower, i.e., a French shower, and even a bathtub—white, small, and with gold claw-feet holding it well off the floor that was clean to the point of sterility. His window—which provided a breath-taking vista centered on the Basilica of the Sacred Heart—opened onto a small terrace to which was attached one of the few outside fire escapes. Sheep Dog recognized Oliver’s hand in providing him a security escape route. Like Sheep Dog, Oliver Prentiss was always on guard, and Sheep Dog appreciated the small touch of his friend’s concern for him. It was good to be back in civilization—in the most civilized city on the planet.
He took a long nap, then showered, dressed, and took a small walking tour, mostly centered on the Basilica. It was a frosty day, and he was not dressed for it; so, he stopped by a small haberdashery and bought a very French looking heavy camel hair overcoat. Before taking the Basilica tour, he walked down the hill to Rue Cardinal Dubois and back. The walk was cold and invigorating since the Basilica is located on the highest point of Paris in Montmartre. Except in winter, the area was highlighted by emerald green lawns and beautiful trees and flowers. This was winter; the trees were bare ruined choirs looking at the Basilica; and the lawns were brown.
The drabness of the winter scene did not dampen Sheep Dog’s enthusiasm for taking the tourist tour of the Basilique Sacré-Coeur. The beautiful edifice with its tall medieval dome is in the Romanesque-Byzantine architectural style, and has a relic that his guide bore solemn testimony was the very Sacred Heart—Sacré-Coeur—of Christ. Sheep Dog had no more faith in the Catholicism that held reverence for the sacred heart kept in a French church or an infallible pope than he did in the visions of Mohammed or Joseph Smith, or for the tale of Buddha walking on pond lily pads when he was seven days old. He did like the comfort, peace, and enthusiasm of the old docent; and he accepted the comfort and peace that true believers got from their religious traditions—with the exception of the violent intolerance of the Muslims. The cool darkness that pervaded the Basilica’s interior was restful and soothing. He felt up-lifted and ready for whatever assignment seemed to be so important to his friend, Oliver.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
In the aftermath, he hit the light switch and bathed his small room in L’Ermitage Sacre Couer with a shock of light. His chest was heaving from his exertions of the last few moments; his muscles ached; and he was confused at what had just happened and about the implications of the attack. His was an orderly mind and one that needed plausible answers. He knew he had been careful and was as
certain as he could be that he had not been followed to the hotel. His brain cleared as his adrenaline rush subsided. He forced himself to think, to piece together everything that had just happened.
There was not that much to remember: He had been asleep—in that level of sleep below REM, beyond dreaming—benefiting from the deep levels of worry free restorative slumber. The hotel window behind its drawn drapes had suddenly crashed inward, and only with his finely toned reflexive instincts had he saved himself by throwing his sleep benumbed body over the edge of the bed away from the window as the bullets from a silencer-muffled 9 mm automatic stitched a trail up the length of the mattress where he had been outstretched less than a second or two before.
The shooter had come up the fire escape from the well lighted street five stories below intent on assassinating the sleeper—a wiry, late middle-aged agent code-named “Sheep Dog” who was making a small contribution to his country’s security. In a former life—that man—had been a businessman named Hunter Caulfield. That life was now irretrievably in the past.
The slender, lithe, well trained professional killer, secure with the knowledge that the element of surprise was in the intruder’s favor, had smashed the way into the hotel bed room that was as dark as the bottom of a mine shaft. The shooter’s young eyes had not adjusted to the blackness of the room as fast as Sheep Dog’s reflexes had propelled him from the bed. The shooter had only a portion of a second to bemoan the fact that he had not been wearing night vision goggles.
The intruding killer moved with the speed of a leopard toward the side from which the sound of Sheep Dog’s body landing on the carpeted floor had come. Sheep Dog balled himself up at the foot of the bed. The shooter whirled around the edge of the mattress and stumbled headlong over Sheep Dog’s spring-coiled figure. Two more rounds pumped out of the silenced end of the gun as the would-be killer pitched toward the floor. Sheep Dog had three advantages now. The muzzle blast had momentarily blinded the shooter to the darkness in the room, and he was now badly off balance. And he was now in an equal battle with a consummate fighter and killer. Sheep Dog executed a smooth uncoiling to envelope the shooter’s flailing legs. He lay prone on the intruder’s back like a coiling anaconda inexorably squeezing the life out of its victim. He moved swiftly up the shooter’s body and pinioned the intruder’s gun arm before the shooter could turn back and fire. Two more shots spat out of the gun impotently into the side of the mattress.
Hunter and hunted locked in a death struggle. Sheep Dog knew that he had won when he realized how slightly built his attacker was. He lay on the intruder’s back. Despite the attacker’s violent struggles, Sheep Dog had been able to hook his feet around the attacker’s shins and his right arm around the slim neck. He tucked his head against the side of the attacker’s head and brought his left arm up to finish the slow death choke—the mata leão, [kill the lion]. Sheep dog had patiently squeezed with all his might. His breathing slowed down and became more nearly normal. The attacker’s struggles waned as the estrangulamento robbed the blood supply, then the critical oxygen supply to the attacker’s brain; and the struggles became feeble, then finally ceased. Sheep Dog released his compressing hold gradually and listened carefully to the attacker’s breathing.
“Buon dormo,” [sleep well] he had whispered soothingly, using the Portuguese of his Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu masters.
Wary that the attacker could have been playing possum, Sheep Dog had slowly begun to remove his arms from around the man’s slim neck. His overworked imagination heard soft regular breathing. But there was no reaction, no movement. Sheep Dog let go slowly and cautiously. There was no response, no counter-attack. He grabbed the attacker’s chin roughly in one hand and his occiput in the other and lifted sharply upward. There was still no reaction. Sheep Dog had then made a sudden violent lifting and twisting motion of a coup de grâce and heard the bones high and deep in the neck crack as loud as if he had broken a base-ball bat. The attacker’s head canted at an impossible angle. Sheep Dog eased up on both hands and took the attacker’s shoulders in his hands and shook violently. The thin muscular intruder’s head moved independent of its body in a way that could only occur with a complete disconnection of the head and neck.
It was over. Less than fifteen seconds earlier Sheep Dog had been sound asleep. He became aware of his rapid cardiac rhythm pounding in his chest. It occurred to him that there could be others. He scooped his Sig-Sauer Glock 9 mm from under his pillow and moved silently to the broken window. He peered outside from the window’s edge quickly and then moved back out of sight again. No one. He stepped hurriedly to the hotel room door and peered out through the peep hole in the hotel door. The limited view indicated no one in the hallway. He undid the two chain locks and the bolt lock as quietly as possible and flung open the door and scrutinized the poorly lit hallway holding his Glock in a two-handed FBI crouch swinging it side-to-side. The hallway was empty. He closed the door—bolt locked it again—and re-attached the two chain locks.
Sheep Dog flicked on the hotel’s room lights and was momentarily dazzled, but moved swiftly to the side of the inert body of his would-be assailant. The slim figure was dressed in a one piece mat-black stretch nylon body suit, a thin Kevlar vest, a ski mask that showed only open dead eyes now, and black lace-up fighter’s shoes with thick rubber soles. A black commando knife was attached to a heavy black web belt buckled tightly to the slender waist. Another, shorter, double-edged dagger was attached to the right ankle; and a sub-compact, semi-automatic 7 round magazine, .22 LR Beretta Bobcat in a concealed weapon holster was attached to the opposite ankle. He examined the larger handgun that had come too close to ending his life. It was a well-used 9 mm Belgian Fabrique National [FN] High Power contract manufactured pistol originally designed and made by Browning. The ID numbers had been expertly removed. Sheep Dog ejected the magazine and examined the bullets—VBR Belgium armor piercing projectile technology. He shivered a little.
“Loaded for bear,” Sheep Dog whispered to himself. “Somebody was right serious.”
His attacker was dead, and now Sheep Dog needed answers. Who knew about him? He did not believe in coincidences; this was no B&E gone wrong. Who wanted him dead? Specifically—and right now—who was after him? There were plenty of the compatriots of his own victims who would want him dead, but there was no reason to think that any of them—on their own—could have traced him to this country, to this hotel, during this night. He contemplated the answers and came up with a very disturbing train of thought.
He unsnapped and removed the attacker’s Kevlar vest—a NATO Level IV Ballistic Vest with imbedded ceramic trauma plates—unzipped the sheathlike black suit and began to search the corpse thoroughly. His search produced two shocks. The first came immediately when he removed the ski mask from his victim’s head. It was a woman—young, attractive, and blond.
The second came after he failed to find any identification in the pocketless clothing. He removed her shoes and tore out the insoles. There he found a photo identification card which shocked him with its familiarity. The name meant nothing to him, but the card had been issued by the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America. Sheep Dog numbly put the ID card on the room desk top reacting as if he had been struck a violent blow to the center of his sternum.
He was momentarily afraid that he would faint. He was a hunter who had become the hunted, and he was going to have to go dissect every event in his history with the Company to find his mistake. If he was going to survive, he could never make another one. He mentally kicked himself for not having the good sense to immobilize the attacker and to have extracted all the information she possessed that could have led to her masters. He had a highly honed skill set for extracting information from the reluctant, and it was useless to him now.
He took mental stock of his situation. His cover was blown. He had been betrayed. He was obligated to think the unthinkable. Only two people on earth knew his identity and his present location: John Smith I, AKA CIA
Officer Edward Liam Salinger, and ADCIA Oliver Prentiss, his friend of thirty years. Sheep Dog took a moment to remember Salinger’s parting warning to him about the fickle loyalty of the Company. Salinger did not seem to be a man with an overweening ambition, and he did not seem to be a man who would desert a brother-soldier in trouble. Oliver was nothing if not ambitious. He wanted nothing more than to occupy the director’s office. Sheep Dog was pretty sure that the man would do almost anything short of selling-out his family—and maybe even that—for his career standing.
He hated the thought—it had been Oliver. He hated the implication—there was no safety net for him, no one to call. He once had Oliver, Ed Salinger, and for a while, Neal Dastrup, and Glen Gabler. Now, there was no one but himself. He had never felt so alone and unsafe.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Sheep Dog hurriedly moved his two bags out of his room and down the hall to the laundry chute and dropped them in. He kept only his Beretta 9 mm and knife, and his folder with money and passports. He had to travel light; his life depended on being able to move very quickly and without being hampered. He returned to the room and threw the dead assassin over his shoulder in a fire-man’s carry and dumped her corpse down the chute as well. That might buy him some time.
He left the hotel through his window. It was still very dark below, and he could not be sure but that a Company vehicle was parked on Rue Lamarck waiting to help the assassin to escape. Without a second thought, he climbed up the fire escape instead of down and pulled himself onto the roof. He dashed across and looked down over “the Paris side” for another fire escape. It took five minutes to find it in the dark, and he descended it to the ground in less than two minutes. He could feel the clock clicking away his life and could almost feel the hot breath of pursuers.
Sheep Dog and the Wolf Page 36