The Recruiter

by Roger Weston

  The intercom blinked, and Robert pushed the button with a moist finger.

  “Yes, Jane.”

  “Leslie is here, Mr. Fielding.”

  “What about Parcher?”

  “On his way, sir.”

  “Wait three minutes, then send her in.”

  Robert sat back in his chair. He knew Leslie was here to talk about Brandt. He knew her complaint, but her motive was puzzling. After all, Chuck had now survived three assassination attempts, each more dangerous than the last. Before, it was just about collecting data. Now Robert was starting to wonder just what Brandt could do. Hiring him to work at Clearbrook had been first step in his brilliant plan. Chuck was a burned out asset on borrowed time. After his wife’s death, he’d wasted his talents by befriending immigrants and mentally-challenged residents and breaking up fights between teenaged Somalis at the Clearbrook Apartment complex. Robert shook his head in disgust. Once a living legend, Chuck was screwed up and beyond salvage according to most standards. However, his value as a test subject was proving invaluable.

  Robert gazed out the window. It was a gray morning in downtown Seattle. He sipped his coffee and watched the crowds milling in and out of Pike Place Market.

  Leslie strode in, shutting the door behind her. Robert noticed her long legs. His gaze slowly wandered up and found her nervous, cold eyes.

  Her high heels clicked sharply on the floor, and she sat down across the desk.

  A moment later, the door swung open and Parcher entered. He shut the door hard, and Robert felt a tinge of irritation. Parcher was six-four and weighed two-seventy. His head was large and his face, thick-boned. The bone structure of his cheeks looked especially solid. His face reminded Robert of a battering ram, probably because Robert had seen footage of several of Parcher’s pro fights, including one where he lost because he head-butted an opponent and was disqualified. He sat next to Leslie, causing the joints of the chair to creak.

  Robert looked at Parcher. “Let’s get right to it. Tell me about Brandt’s stress quotient.”

  Parcher shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Our observers have been studying the video we took after each assassination attempt. After our latest attempt, he was experiencing extreme anxiety.”

  “Three men had just tried to kill him,” Leslie said. “Of course he’s going to be stressed when he’s speeding from the scene. The question is how was he a few hours later? It’s the residual effect that we’re looking for.”

  “I admit the results were somewhat disappointing,” Parcher said, “but we plan to change that.”

  Robert raised his hand and gestured toward Leslie. “She doesn’t think we should use Brandt as our guinea pig.”

  Parcher raised his eyebrows and turned his head sideways to look at Leslie as if this was a revelation to him. He looked back at Robert and shook his head with a slight shrug. Robert felt another pang of irritation.

  “Don’t even act surprised,” Leslie said, her fingers tapping the file on her knee. “I warned you. Brandt is one of those rare individuals that thrive in disequilibrium. He is not the right person for this study. We need an asset we can control. Brandt is a poor risk.” She picked up her file and flipped back a couple of pages. “He can’t be pushed to the bifurcation point. He manages his stress too well. It’s right here in the file and—” She hesitated and took a deep breath.

  Robert smiled. “Yes, he could be problem. But if we succeed, the results could become very valuable.”

  She looked up. “Chuck exhibits persistent maladaptive moral posturing that creates determination that can’t be stopped and that causes serious life problems for the individual—and his employer.”

  Parcher frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “We are looking for an asset that we can manage.” Leslie snapped her file onto the desk.

  Parcher shook his head. “This is crap.”

  Robert turned his chair toward downtown Seattle. Fog obscured the waterfront now, and the farmer’s market was out of sight.

  “Brandt,” Leslie said, “is a danger to our mission. It’s time to foreclose his loan. Think about the risk. Think about Bogata.”

  Parcher snorted. “That’s not confirmed, Leslie. And probably never will be.”

  “Because he’s good,” she said.

  “Because it never happened.”

  “What about his slip during my session?”

  “That was vague. We checked the references, and his comment doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I deal with facts,” Parcher said, “not speculation.”

  “He’s the one, Robert. I guarantee it.” Leslie put her finger to her temple. “He needs to be eliminated, or he will tear down your house.”

  Robert leaned back in his chair and gazed at her during a heavy silence. “I don’t see any problem with termination. We’re already moving in that direction.”

  “I mean now,” Leslie said. “He’ll screw up our funding and possibly us.”

  “We can control the situation,” Robert said. “Controlling him is the key to our funding. We will break him.”

  Leslie stood up. “Clearly with a soft target, the operational tactics being employed against Brandt are capable of producing elevated stress levels adequate to justify the time and resources expended in the execution. The fact that they aren’t working in his case supports my position that he is not an appropriate target. Budget constraints have to be weighed against return on investment—in terms of negative stress reaction and performance regression. This has to occur with every decision to employ chaos infusion. Otherwise, costs and liabilities could mushroom, not to mention potential complications related to collateral damage. You start this ball rolling—you won’t be able to stop it. If that happens, it doesn’t matter what your man accomplishes in the Senate.”

  “We need him alive to bait Curtis,” Robert said. “The bastard’s killed two of our people, and Brandt is next on his hit list.”

  “You don’t know who’s on his list,” Leslie said. “I want Brandt dead. Put it in writing.”

  Parcher shrugged. “One of my top guys can put Brandt against the ropes at a moment’s notice.”

  “Your hit teams have failed to create a sense of panic,” Leslie said. “He needs to be gone.”

  “We’ll intensify our tactics until he gets desperate or Curtis sanctions him.” Robert leaned back in his chair. “That’s why I need to see results fast, Parcher. Break him and then offer him a way out. When he takes the bait, we’ll show the people in D.C. that we can control hard targets.”

  Leslie narrowed her eyes. “No more games. We don’t have time to play around.”

  “Just relax,” Robert said. “Don’t forget how much is at stake here. Vincent Law is excited about the research, and his interest is essential for our funding increase. Not only that, if we succeed, we will be given control of the SMW program. We just need to turn up the pressure, to push Brandt harder until he crumbles. It won’t take long.”

  “You’d better be right.” Leslie sighed as she tapped her pencil mercilessly on the arm rest of her chair.

  CHAPTER 13

  Bellevue, Washington State

  In the back of his high-tech communications and surveillance van, Ron Tapper sat in a beach chair facing a bank of computer and satellite equipment. He worked the keyboard and zoomed in on his target. A satellite image of the Seattle waterfront glowed on his monitor, and Chuck Brandt’s signal showed as a flashing dot.

  Ron zoomed in the video feed, then picked up his secure Sat Phone and dialed. Parcher answered.

  “It’s Ron. Location confirmed. Your man’s in Seattle.”

  “What about his stress level?”

  “He’s been on the road a long time. His pupil size is being monitored with the remote infrared technology we hid in the dashboard.”

  “And?”

  “Elevated stress, particularly after our police car followed him yesterday.”

 
; “What was the quotient?” Parcher said.

  “Seven.”

  “That’s not so high considering he’s a fugitive being followed by a cop car. What else have you got for me?”

  “Yesterday he stopped at a diner in Elko, Nevada. After he left, one of our boys got to Brandt’s drinking glass before the busboy cleared the table. Based on our saliva analysis, his quotient was 6.8, which tracks with our other numbers.”

  “I need more data. You say he’s in Seattle now?”

  “Edmonds Ferry Terminal.”

  “Make sure your data logs are filled out meticulously.”

  “Done.”

  This was incredible, Ron thought to himself. They were tracking a rogue operator, a Level 5 hard target, and the man didn’t know it.

  CHAPTER 14

  Next day, Edmonds, Washington State

  Chuck caught a ferry in Edmonds, a suburb north of Seattle. On the ferry, he sat with his back to the wall and sipped black coffee. He pretended to read a magazine while he scanned faces and watched the mannerisms and behaviors of his fellow passengers. He compared their faces to his mental photo album of known assassins and operatives. He saw nothing suspicious or troubling, and that left him feeling uneasy. Professionals blended in like rocks in a quarry.

  Unfortunately, he was familiar with too many professionals. Their faces were committed to memory. The problem was the deep-cover agents and those who weren’t in his photo bank. New people entered the profession all the time, and any one of them could be the wildcard that brought swift death.

  The ferry left Chuck at a small town called Kingston. From there it was a forty minute drive through towering alder and fir trees to Port Ludlow on the Olympic peninsula.

  Once the site of a logging mill, Port Ludlow was now a quiet resort community set on a lush green hillside that sloped down to a marina in a protected harbor. The address that Zinn had given him was up the hill from the resort on a road lined with thick alder trees and salmon berry bushes.

  Chuck approached the cottage and knocked at the weathered blue door. It creaked open a few inches and a face emerged behind a chain lock. A middle aged woman with soft wavy red hair looked at Chuck with skeptical eyes. “Yes.”

  Chuck cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Angela Smith.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s personal. May I come in?”

  “You better tell me what you need, or I’m closing the door.”

  “Darren Zinn gave me your name. He said—”

  Her eyes opened wide as she tried to slam the door. Chuck shoved his foot into the jam, and it absorbed the impact. Angela threw all of her weight against the door, but Chuck countered with his.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  “Ma’m, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Angela ran into the house.

  Chuck tapped the door, and it slammed into the wall. He went after Angela and caught up with her in the kitchen. She pulled the freezer door open and yanked out a pistol. As she swung it toward Chuck, he caught her hand and slammed it against the frig. With his free hand, he stripped the gun from hers, but as he did this, her knee hammered him in the inner thigh. As Chuck staggered backwards, he turned her gun on her to keep her away while he recovered. He was shocked that the weapon did not deter her. She rushed forward and kicked him in the ear. The pain bolted through his brain as his head snapped to the side. He saw the next kick coming and blocked it with his forearm as he thrust his palm into her ribs, knocking her off balance. She landed on her side.

  Chuck twisted her arm and forced her to get up. “What’s wrong with you? I said I won’t hurt you.”

  “You already have.”

  “Where’s Jin Mountain? Tell me right now, or I’ll break your arm.”

  “I don’t—”

  Chuck twisted.

  Angela shrieked in pain. “Okay, okay. Just let me go.”

  Chuck cuffed her with plastic zip ties.

  “What’s this about?” she said.

  “I have a few questions for you, just like I did for Darren. He resisted and that turned out to be a mistake. I hope you’re smarter than that. Now sit down in that chair. If you cooperate, I’ll cut you loose in a few minutes and leave. Otherwise, we do it the hard way.”

  She sat and gave him a cold glare. “Darren threatened to kill me, and obviously he sent you to do it. You aren’t going to cut me loose.”

  Chuck looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Angela said, “but you don’t know what kind of a lunatic Darren is.”

  “You don’t know what kind of a lunatic I am.”

  Her expression showed contempt. “I’ve got a better idea than you think.”

  “I guess you’re no smarter than he is. Something tells me you know what comes next.”

  When she spoke, her voice was subdued. “I’ve been to Jin Mountain, but I was blindfolded on the way. All I know is that it’s in a remote area in a forest. There are some buildings there and heavy security. It’s somewhere in Idaho. I was taken there by helicopter. I hope you find out where it is and go there because you’ll never get out alive.”

  Chuck averted his gaze and stared at the wall, only keeping Angela in his peripheral vision. He felt his face get hot, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He figured that if he were half the professional that Curtis was, he’d rip her fingernails out with pliers to see if she changed her story. But he believed her, and he wasn’t Curtis.

  He turned to her. “If you’re holding something back …”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Chuck sighed. “Who’s Bruce Foley?”

  She took a breath, her eyes on Chuck. “He’s a NASA scientist. He saw something at Jin Mountain. I don’t know what. I only met him briefly. An hour later I overheard part of an argument. He threatened to reveal something he saw. They said something and calmed him down. That’s it. I never saw him again.”

  She glared at him.

  Human beings could stand only so much pain before their defenses broke down. Chuck thought he’d taken Zinn to that point, but perhaps he had not. Chuck remembered Zinn’s last words: “Your problems have just begun.”

  He took a deep breath. “If you’re lying to me about Jin Mountain, I’ll find you. There is nowhere on earth that you can hide from me. There is no identity you can hide beneath and no little corner of the world where I won’t visit.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Port Townsend, Washington State

  Chuck walked among the boats tied up at the marina, and he paused by one that caught his eye. The Saratoga was close to seventy feet with double wood masts.

  Chuck allowed himself to dream for a minute. He imagined himself in the South Pacific, on the Saratoga, the wind snapping at her sails. He pictured Lydia at the helm.

  Chuck sighed, and his dreams evaporated. The truth was that life was a battle that never ended, and if he backed away from the fight he would do so at great cost—to himself and others. Leaning against a creosote piling, using a secure cell phone, he called up Aaron Hansen. Aaron was a retired NASA scientist who Chuck had met at a fishing lodge in Alaska. He’d stayed at the same lodge as Aaron, and they ended up fishing together. After that, they’d made it an annual tradition along with a few other guys. Now, he and Aaron exchanged the usual small talk for a few minutes.

  “Aaron, I’m not calling about fishing.”

  “What can I do for you, kid?”

  “I can’t go into details now, but I need information about a guy named Bruce Foley. He worked for NASA.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  A sailing yacht motored past, and Chuck nodded to the couple at the helm.

  “Can you do some research for me? I need to find out more about him. Anything. I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “Keep your money, kid. Look, I’ve got a motor home in the driveway, but I can’t get Judy to hit the road. I’ve got so much time on my hands it’s eating
me up. I’ll be glad to help you out.”

  “You’ll need to be very careful. Whatever Foley was involved in was sensitive.”

  “I’ll be alright,” Aaron said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  United States Senate

  Earl Brown blew a lung full of cigar smoke as he weaved his scooter around a frantic page who was sweating and cursing over a text message he was sending in the wide hallway of the Senate. The boy greeted Earl by name, and Earl encouraged him by telling him to keep his snout in the trough. As Earl approached the bathroom, he stopped his vehicle and set the cigar in the ash tray of his arm rest. He lifted his arm and blew some ashes off of the white material of his sports jacket. Fortunately, there was no burn in the fabric of his garment. He forced his big hand into the pocket and brought out treats. He popped a few jelly beans into his mouth and enjoyed the flood of saliva and the sweet taste.

  Earl hit the button for the handicapped, and the door swung open. He entered the bathroom and drove his scooter to the extra-wide end stall. He backed his vehicle into the stall and latched the door shut. He waited five minutes until a person entered the next stall and sat down.

  The person cleared his throat, paused, and cleared his throat again.

  That was Earl’s signal, so he removed the envelope from his pocket and leaned down to hand it under the divider to the person in the next stall. It was hard and uncomfortable to lean down that far, and he barely managed to pull it off. But a white hand took the envelope. The person flushed the toilet and left the restroom with twenty thousand in cash.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ballard docks, Seattle, Washington

  Chuck parked five blocks down from Ballard Hardware. He wove his way through a few alleys and down several back streets, pausing occasionally to check for foot traffic in his back trail. He passed Seattle Ship Supply and Dock Street Brokers. When he spotted his fishing boat tied up next to a floating boathouse with sheet-metal siding, he headed in that direction. His old pal Jeff was standing at the end of the dock waving to him.