by Dick Couch
“Your organization sounds interesting, and yes, I’d like to learn more. But tell me something about yourself.”
Steven rubbed his hands together and smiled to himself. “There’s not a lot to tell really. I did my time in Southeast Asia with the 5th Special Forces Group. Spent a good deal of time in Laos. After the war, I found work at the CIA as a paramilitary officer and covert-actions specialist. Since leaving the Agency I’ve worked as a consultant for corporate security and executive protection. For the last five months, I’ve been involved with this project.” He hesitated, then continued. “It took me a while to get my arms around this venture—and to understand its complexity and the scope of the operation. I’m sure you’ll also need some time to digest it. It’s a bold venture and not without a whole range of potential risks. But I think a great deal of good can come of it. Those of us involved will be very well paid, but I’m not in it for the money. I consider it a challenging and worthy venture. In short, I believe in it.”
Garrett did not answer immediately. “For the most part, I agree. An intervention force that can act quickly and decisively can do a lot of good. But there’s also potential for abuse. Who determines just where and when to commit this force? What constitutes a crisis? Is it economic or humanitarian, or can it also be political? Just what is the decision-making process? Who makes the decision, executive and operationally, whether it’s a go or a no-go? And why? This may not be a commercial enterprise, but we’re still talking about people’s lives. This is not some Frederick Forsyth novel.”
Steven smiled to himself, recalling Forsyth’s fine book, The Dogs of War. Garrett Walker had just passed a very important test. “Excellent questions. As in all corporations, there will be a board of directors, and any executive action will have to be endorsed by that board. Nothing will happen without the approval of our board. Board members are selected for character, integrity, and proven history of patriotism and public service.” Steven paused to frame his words. “Look at it this way. I will function as the chief executive officer. You, or someone like you, will serve as chief operating officer. In place of a chief financial officer, we will have an intelligence specialist or mission planner. The three of us will have to agree not only that a mission or operation is feasible, but that it is in keeping with”—Steven paused, again searching for the right words—“the moral charter of our organization. In short, you will not be asked to do anything that violates your personal ethics. An undertaking has to be doable, and it has to have merit.”
Garrett considered this a moment and quickly came to a decision. “What time tomorrow do you want to get started?”
4
Thursday, October 3,
Pokhara, Nepal
Garrett made a practice of using his time on airplanes to good advantage. A long flight or a flight delay was an opportunity to get something done—something that required concentration or was difficult to weave into the fabric of his daily routine. And since he had joined Guardian Systems International, his daily routine had recently become exceptionally busy. Occasionally he encountered seat mates who required the attentions of their fellow passengers to pass the time. Those that loved to talk found Garrett a disappointment. He was always polite, but he kept to himself and his own agenda. He was in such deep concentration that the flight attendant had to squeeze him on the arm.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said in her singsong English, “we are preparing for landing, and you must turn off your machine.”
“Kap khun,” Garrett replied with a smile and a gentle nod of his head.
She flashed him a shy smile, bowed over steepled fingers in the Thai way, and moved on up the aisle. Garrett pulled the earphones to his lap and adjusted his seat belt. The Singapore Air 737 yawed and bucked gently as it carefully felt its way through the clouds in search of the Kathmandu airport.
Garrett closed his eyes and played the last portion of the tape back in his mind. Again he marveled at the recurring patterns and similarities of the Nepalese language and of the dialect to which he had been listening, Gurkhali. When he asked Steven Fagan where he had found a set of instructional tapes on Gurkhali, Fagan had simply shrugged. Then, with a smile, he admitted that he still had friends in low places. Asian languages were difficult for westerners because they seldom were able to recognize the subtle repetitions and patterns. Garrett Walker was quite intelligent, but since childhood he had struggled with a learning disability. Garrett was a twin. His brother, Brandon, was equally bright, but he had no learning disorders. So Garrett had listened very carefully in class, and at night his brother explained everything to him. Just as some people have a photographic memory for reading, Garrett developed a photographic ear. Sound and the spoken word became his primary sensory input. With time and maturity, he developed adequate reading and writing skills, but he still listened carefully. Because of this ability to listen and catalog sounds, he was able to quickly master the conversational skills of a new language.
“How did you know she was Thai?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The flight attendant,” said the woman next to him. “How did you know she was Thai?”
“Chinese are taller, and Malays are broader,” Garrett replied. Then he smiled. “I heard her speaking to one of the other attendants when I visited the lavatory,” he admitted.
“Are you coming to Nepal on business or pleasure, Mr., ah—?”
“Walker. Garrett Walker,” he replied, trying to be polite but not wanting to be drawn into a conversation about his work.
She was a stocky woman who dressed like a student, but seemed a little dated for an undergraduate. There was a fanny pack perched on her stomach and a small knapsack stuffed under the seat in front of her. Garrett grimaced—probably some ecotourist coming to bring the green gospel to the uninformed. Americans, who had never known want or hunger, often took issue with how other cultures used and sometimes squandered their resources.
“Actually, this is a pleasure trip,” Garrett replied. “I’ve never been to Nepal, and I wanted to do some hiking.”
“Oh, how fun,” she said, warming to the conversation. “I’m taking a class about Far Eastern religions. I can’t wait to see some of the temples.”
“Then you came to see the monkeys?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
“You mean they have monkeys in the temples?”
“Not in them, on them.” She gave him a puzzled expression. “The carvings of monkeys on the fascia of the temples,” he continued, “hundreds of them, copulating with each other.” Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. “Truly,” Garrett continued, “it’s one of their most cherished art forms. They’re quite ornate and decorative.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. Some of them are quite creative, actually—that is, if you’re into monkeys screwing.” He lowered his voice. “And I mean in every imaginable position, and then some. You’ll see when you visit the temples.”
The plane touched down and taxied to the small terminal. Garrett recovered his briefcase from under the seat and pulled a small grip from the overhead. He left his seat mate pondering her visit to the Nepalese capital.
He caught a taxi from the airport to the center of town and the bus terminal. There was biweekly air service to his destination, but the next plane out was not for two days. Garrett decided to take the bus. The ride from Kathmandu to Pokhara was not unlike one in rural Central America. There were extended families, chickens, a few peacocks, and a goat aboard. The rack on top of the coach was crammed with luggage, household wares, and furniture, along with two adventuresome boys. It should have been a six-hour road trip but took close to eleven hours, as the bus stopped often. The driver and most of the passengers had relatives along the way, so politeness and adherence to local customs dictated the schedule. For Garrett, the time passed quickly, and he was a little disappointed when the trip was finally over. He was the only westerner on the bus. Garrett readily absorbed other cultures, much as he did
languages. While he was often reserved and private among his own countrymen, he was the opposite as a stranger in a strange land. Soon into the journey, he was drinking curdled milk from a goatskin with a child on his lap. Once the Nepalese learned this handsome American could speak broken Gurkhali, he was immediately drawn into their midst. Garrett was not only able to improve his vocabulary and the subtle inflections of the language, but subconsciously he began to copy the gestures and mannerisms of those around him. It would have taken a serious language student, with a native-speaking instructor, a full semester to make as much progress as Garrett Walker did on this long bus ride. As he left the depot and made his way into town, he even walked differently; he no longer moved like an American with long confident strides. Now he took smaller, measured steps, and his head was slightly bowed, shoulders forward. He was less threatening in his movements, and he had assumed a more open, polite expression—all without conscious effort on his part.
Pokhara was a small city, and Garrett had little trouble finding his hotel. That he could ask for and take directions in Gurkhali delighted those he met along the way. Most thought he was British or at least Canadian. His hotel room was clean and basic. Though it was late, he managed to find a café open and ordered something unknown to him on the menu, but whose name he pronounced fairly well. Then he lingered over coffee, talking to the proprietor and his wife until it would have been rude for him to remain any longer.
His meeting with Bijay Gurung had been scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning. Garrett passed on his usual morning run to walk about Pokhara, absorbing the feel of the old city and stopping periodically to talk with shopkeepers. He had thought of trying to observe Bijay Gurung prior to the meeting, as he had done when he first met Steven Fagan, alias Gary Bethke. But Garrett had read a great deal about this famous Gurkha fighter. Gurung might be difficult to secretly watch, especially on his own ground. He was something of a national hero, and others might not respond well to a stranger observing him from the shadows. Additionally, Garrett’s research on the man suggested that little could be gained from such a venture. Gurkhas were generally straightforward fighters—simple men with few of the soldierly vices found in Western military services. Gurung himself was reportedly intelligent, refined, and temperate, and unlike many retired Gurkhas he was not given to regaling youngsters about his military prowess. And Gurung’s military prowess, Garrett had learned, was considerable. The man was a legend among the Gurkhas, and even more impressive, was held in high esteem by the British and Australian Special Air Services. Garrett was anxious to meet him.
Garrett stepped quietly into the cafe and recognized Gurung instantly from his photos. He smiled to himself. There was something about a true warrior—a certain quiet self-confidence that said this man was a professional soldier. That he was not in uniform was of no consequence; Garrett knew at a glance that he was a man to be reckoned with. Walking over to Gurung’s table, he paused at a respectful distance, held his hands along his trouser seams, and bowed slightly, formally.
“My name is Garrett Walker. Is there room at your table for a weary traveler?” he said politely. He did not raise his eyes to meet Gurung’s, for that would have been presumptuous and very Western.
Bijay Gurung watched the American walk in. He was tall, as were most Americans, but he carried himself like an Asian and did not seem out of place. When the owner glanced in Bijay’s direction in response to his inquiry, the man lowered his head courteously and quietly thanked him—very un-Western. This American, who had traveled halfway around the world to see Bijay, appeared to be different from others who had sought him out. He moved with an ease and a sense of purpose, yet he gave no impression of arrogance. And he addressed Bijay in Gurkhali, very rare indeed for an American. Bijay could tell that he was new to the language, but his inflection, which is often difficult for the Western tongue, was near perfect.
“I would be honored to share my table with you,” Bijay replied, then, switching to English, which due to his Sandhurst mentors carried the precision and nasal quality of an English public school, “and pleased if you were to join me.”
Garrett slid into the chair across from Bijay and murmured his thanks. Then for the first time he looked into the man’s face. Garrett was immediately taken by the rich, nut-brown quality of Bijay’s skin—tough yet smooth. He knew Bijay was forty-one, at least according to his British Army service record. But many Gurkha boys lied about their age in order to serve in the Brigade of Gurkhas as soon as possible. Many others simply did not know how old they were. Since Gurung was tall for a hill tribesman, he may have done just that. But he looked as if he could have been in his late twenties—or his mid-fifties. Gurung’s eyes were dark liquid pools of intensity, firm but not judgmental. Garrett held his eyes for an instant and made a decision.
“While it is an honor to meet you, Bijay Gurung, it is also painful to find a capable warrior here and not in garrison seeing to his men. This must be a terrible burden for your spirit.”
Bijay regarded him coldly. The words could be taken as an insult, or at the very least a challenge, but they were said with a certain respect and sincerity. And there was something about this man’s manner that said he understood about the exile of a soldier. There was also an economy of movement and assurance that said he had seen danger and that he had led men in combat. Americans were seldom regarded as warriors in the fashion that Gurkhas considered themselves warriors; Americans were from a wealthy nation and conducted war with technology. Yet Bijay’s finely tuned instincts told him this man was possibly a warrior very much in his own tradition.
“How can you be so sure of this, my tall American friend?” He was silent for a moment, studying the man across the table. Garrett said nothing. “You may have read something of me, or been told something of me by the British. But how can you presume to know the condition of my spirit?”
“I know, Bijay Gurung. Believe me, I know.” Garrett stared at Bijay, and his eyes softened. “Because,” he added softly, “I have walked in your shoes.”
Bijay did not know whether or not to believe him, but he was not one to quickly judge others. He did sense this bold American was a man to be treated with respect.
“Very well. You seem to know about me, but I know nothing about you. Perhaps you should tell me something of yourself.”
“Thank you, Bijay Gurung. You honor me with your request. May we have tea together?”
Moments later, the tea service arrived, and Garrett waited patiently while Bijay attended to measuring the tea and pouring the scalding water over the dark leaves.
For the next hour, Garrett talked in quiet measured tones. He spoke in English, but occasionally used a phrase in Gurkhali. He told Bijay of his eighteen-year career as a Navy SEAL and of the unusual number of times he had been in combat. Talk of combat operations and the killing of men flows naturally between men of action. Garrett noticed that Bijay seemed to lean forward when he talked about his tour with the Australian Special Air Service. Like all Gurkhas, Bijay was an infantryman. Small, elite units like the SAS hold a special fascination for infantrymen. Garrett also knew service with an SAS unit was one of the things they had in common. For the most part, Garrett reviewed the highlights of his service career in a methodical, unemotional manner. But when he spoke of the condition that had forced him from active service, Bijay sensed a subtle change in the demeanor of the American. Was it, he thought, anger or sadness—or both?
“I will not go into the details, for they are unimportant,” Garrett told him, “but I felt that I had not yet reached my full potential as a warrior.”
Bijay felt the subtle measure of passion in these words, and he knew this quiet stranger still chafed at being separated from his unit. He was interested and somewhat impressed by Garrett’s military experience. Now looking into his eyes, feeling his power, Bijay knew he was talking to a serious warrior—someone not unlike himself.
“I appealed the decision, but a medical reexamination found
me unfit to return to an operational status. The United States military can be quite bureaucratic in that regard.” Garrett paused to compose himself. Somehow, in the presence of this man, he had unconsciously allowed his guard to fall and his feelings to surface. He caught himself; this was not good, he quickly reflected, or was it? “I was totally unprepared to leave the Navy SEAL teams and the men of my unit.” He pursed his lips and continued. “Of course, I would have been allowed to stay on in an administrative or training capacity, but I could not accept this. Or to be truthful, I chose not to. I believe there is a proper time to leave the company of other fighting men, and I was forced to go before my time. Tell me, Bijay Gurung, did you leave before it was your time?”
Bijay was quiet for several moments before he spoke. “Do you know why I no longer serve in the brigade?”
“I have heard some things,” Garrett said with a shrug, “but I seldom attach value to what one man says of another, unless the speaker is someone who has proven himself to me.” Garrett saw Bijay again hesitate, and he thought he saw a hint of a smile pass across his dark features.
“I served the Raj for almost twenty years. I asked not to serve in Brunei, as I felt the duty demeaning—the work of a palace guard and not a task worthy of a warrior. At the specific request of my colonel, I agreed to go. The battalion of the Royal Gurkha Rifles stationed there had earned a reputation for sloppiness and inattention to duty. They were, after all, a battalion of Gurkhas; they needed assistance, and I could not refuse. I had been there for about three months, serving as the command sergeant major. With the help of several of the senior sergeants, we began to bring the battalion into good order.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Late one evening I made an unexpected tour of the garrison spaces and found a young Gurkha returning to the barracks. He told me that every few weeks he picked up a packet of ‘dispatches’ from a businessman outside the gate and delivered them to one of the subalterns. He was an inexperienced young man—new to the battalion and quite naïve. I know the boy’s family; his father and grandfather both served in the brigade. When he told me that he had been instructed not to report these deliveries to his platoon sergeant, I became suspicious.