THE CONTRACTOR

by R. SAINT HILAIRE

  Goldman scowled, thinking Sven was ridiculous. “So, yes I brought you here because…”

  “Wait, you brought me here? I thought you said, “get over to Istanbul immediately” and I made calls, traded an old Rolex, and got too cozy with...well, never mind, so I could get on a private jet for nine hours to fulfill your every need.”

  Goldman dropped his head and laughed into his hand. “Indeed. And thank you for coming, even though it’s your damn job.”

  “Now, now, don’t get hostile; I enjoyed every minute.” Sven gave him a fake shy smile.

  “So, let's get down to business.” Goldman started. “Let me catch you up with some background, then we will move on to the ask.”

  Sven made himself comfortable, pulled a small notepad and pen from his jacket’s internal breast pocket, and listened intently.

  “So, the newly titled Executive Operational Specialist started, “our friend Station Chief Richards is up to his reindeer games again. He hasn’t given up on his insane desire to manage the purse strings of our defense department. Like the last time, he is coming up with schemes to start some shit, but this time with Iran. He, as you know, is the champion of big defense budgets, and knows how to feed the war machine. Some of my people have given me intel that…”

  “Your people?” Sven jumped in, putting his notepad down on the table harder than necessary. “I thought I was your people. I thought I was the one who got you intel. I’m hurt.”

  Goldman again scowled. “Can we not be so dramatic right now?”

  Sven half mumbled, “I am dramatic, aren’t I?”

  “Anyhow, some people who gather intelligence, with whom I have a past professional relationship, have provided intelligence and evidence that Richards has a crazy plan to move nuclear materials across the Turkey/Iran border, and for that illegal transport to be quote ‘discovered.’ There will be a scene and then he will stump the halls of power in D.C. to call in air strikes and eventually put troops on the ground.”

  Sven looked up from his notepad, “If you know this, you can easily stop this. I know you can make a couple calls and this all ends.”

  “If it were just that simple,” Goldman went on to describe the other part of the equation. The Nick Branson part.

  “Are you kidding me? Nick Branson again? I thought it was nice of you to save his young fine ass once, but he is involved again? Why?” Sven seemed very offput.

  “Because Richards is a hungry evil man. He wants Nick too, because he screwed up his last attempt at this.”

  “What do you mean by ‘wants Nick too’ Michael?”

  Goldman sipped on his tea and took in the view for a moment. “He wants Nick dead.”

  Sven squinted his eyes. “He is a greedy bastard, isn’t he?”

  “So, I,” Goldman said after taking a sip of his tea, “I mean we...ok, I mean you need to set a few things up so we can nip this in the bud.”

  Richards loved to set up the plots. He had been that way since he was young. Maybe it was because he loved to read spy novels as a kid. He liked thinking of a goal or outcome, then setting up situations to help move all those involved in the direction that would help him achieve his goal.

  It started pretty simply. He wanted to attend a high school football game when he was in Junior High. He knew his parents would not want him to go because they felt he wasn't old enough. His mother was not interested in going. His father worked second shift. So, he arranged an afternoon of play with his buddy Don, who had a high school aged brother on the football team. While at Don’s house he saw Don’s mother baking cookies. He asked if he could have one. Don’s mother said no - they were for selling at the football game the next evening. Richards knew an opportunity when he saw one. He told Don’s mother that his own mother was a great baker and made amazing brownies. Don’s mom said she wondered if she would like to bake them and bring them to the game to help support the team. Chris told her to give his mother a call, and that she would probably love to do that. So, cookies and brownies were baked and stacked in large Tupperware containers between sheets of waxed paper. And of course, as his father was not available to watch him in the evening his mother had to bring him to the football game.

  Richards never had to ask his mother to go, nor to receive a negative response to his request. He simply set up the situation so the outcome he wanted seemed natural, and nobody was the wiser.

  Decades later, and many such plots later, Richards played the same games at a global scale.

  When he led the CIA, he was focused on the funding. Keep the dollars rolling in. So, using the situation in Iraq at the time, he executed plots to sabotage various military missions, thus keeping a need for troops on the ground and ongoing funding for his spook activities. When that all turned to shit, he started a new plot.

  This plot had many layers, and it took him over a year to figure out all the pieces. The reason it was so difficult is that it had two goals. The first was to create a situation that would end in the overall control of Iran and maintain some balance with the control of oil in the Mideast. The second was something much larger - something nobody would see coming. As a matter of fact, if it worked correctly, others would achieve his goal for him.

  Achieving that one goal would allow him to stop making plots and start making his plots policy. With the achievement of that goal would come the ultimate power he wanted—direct executive command of the military.

  Richards reached out to some old buddies who provided Executive Protection services in Turkey and surrounding areas. He knew of a high-speed security contractor dying to get into executive protection. He came with all the clearances and experiences. He could go through a crash course in EP and be ready to hit the road in a couple of weeks. This would be an especially good fit for Ambassador Magyar’s upcoming liaisons with Iran.

  The next set of calls were to locate Erik Olsen. Their last conversation ended with a statement, but not with a plan. It was time to put his own personal vendetta on the front burner along with his international incident plot.

  Whereas Richards felt Erik was the only one who could kill Nick, Goldman conversely knew only Nick could kill Erik. So, bringing these two together on the right square on the chessboard could get rid of Erik and topple Richards.

  Sven had dug up the details on the Executive Protection mission. Nick was going to need protection. It was a strange thought to have, that the protective agent would need protection. But to get done what Goldman needed done, some other big bad chess pieces must be put on the board. Who could he get involved? Who would look appropriate to insert themselves into a diplomatic protection detail?

  Goldman realized he had answered his own question. He knew who to call, but this was a call he would have to make. It was above Sven’s pay grade. He needed to engage the Diplomatic Security Services.

  The Diplomatic Security Services, or DSS was founded during WWI to investigate espionage and sabotage from German and Austrian spies in the United States. During WWII the group, then known as SY began expanding its presence around the world to have boots on the ground in areas that may provide security risks to the U.S., and to U.S. Dignitaries visiting such areas. The 1983 Beirut Embassy bombing caused the State Department to create the Diplomatic Security Services.

  The DSS has several missions, from visa and passport fraud detection to cyber security and criminal investigations. But it is most widely known from its Diplomatic Protection Detail. These are highly trained Executive Protection Agents who protect both domestic and foreign dignitaries, creating a secure environment for U.S. diplomacy around the world.

  With the Turkish Ambassador as the principal of this engagement, it would make perfect sense for the DSS to send protective agents to secure a key ally as he deals with a hostile country on behalf of a U.N. Council resolution to prevent Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons. And they would be covering Nick Branson’s ass.

  Goldman made the calls he needed to make to get him to A.D. Donovan. He explained the need and G
oldman’s plan made sense to the acting DSS Director. Soon after, DSS agents arrived in Istanbul and connected with the protective teams. Goldman had briefed them by the time they met the Avengers. They even worked covertly with the Team Lead Saadi to get Nick on a plane instead of keeping him in the security convoy once Goldman had found out that Erik planned a strike on them while on the way to Khoy.

  What wasn’t expected was how that intel got to Erik or Richards or both. Somehow, they heard Nick was not going to be on said convoy and was taking a private jet. Obviously, there was a security breach, but that is a different problem Goldman would deal with. The immediate problem was the plane. The plane was down, and Nick, Jim, Saadi, and Magyar were all missing and presumed dead. Magyar being the Ambassador meant that security and military forces from both Turkey and Iran would be out searching for the wreckage. The U.S. couldn’t really send its people into Iran, even though there were two Americans on the plane, so Goldman needed to depend on his DSS buddies to investigate the situation for him. He didn’t particularly want to be seen interacting with the DSS, so again he had to rely on Sven.

  Sven took a “taksi” from Sultanahmet across the Galata Koprusu bridge that spans the “Golden Horn” into Karakoy. Karakoy is a very popular nightlife district and was far enough away from where the protection teams were staying to be out of sight of any prying eyes. Sven had been told to look for two very large men, one with a short red beard. This man’s partner would also be recognizable from the size of his arms and legs. They would “stick out” Goldman had told him. They would meet him at a place called Serefe, which essentially means “to honor,” and is the common drinking toast—an appropriate name for a bar.

  The streets were filled with businessmen and other upper crust, hip, well dressed patrons who walked the streets, moved in and out of bars and restaurants, smoked cigarettes, and enjoyed the night life.

  Serefe wasn’t a large establishment. There were perhaps a dozen tables, all occupied, and a long bar across the back of the room. From the door Sven had no problem identifying his targets. Two of the revelers at the bar had backs twice as wide as a normal human. They sat hunched over their drinks and were not raucously talking like the other partiers. They also were not in business attire as most other men at the bar were. Sven pointed to the bar when the greeter asked if he had a reservation.

  Sven thought about putting his hands on each of their backs to introduce himself, but thought the reaction from them might attract more attention than he wished to have. Instead, he stood back more than an arm’s length.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Rusty didn’t move. Big Dave slowly turned his head over his left shoulder and looked Sven up and down. Then he nodded his head with a slight giggle and tapped the giant Viking on the shoulder and pointed toward Sven with his thumb as if to silently say “get a load of this one.”

  “Goldman sent you, right?” Dave asked, still trying not to laugh at the slight figure of a man in an overly form fitting designer suit.

  “Yes. Do you mind if I join you for a few minutes?”

  Both the giants tilted their heads toward the bar to signify agreement. They moved their chairs apart, not offering one to Sven, but creating space for him to stand between them. He looked like a very thin hamburger between two very large buns.

  Sven ordered a Manhattan, hoping the Turkish bartender had some idea of how to make one. When the drink came Sven inspected it, shrugged his shoulders and took a sip.

  “Ok, that will do. Now let's chat about a little adventure Mr. Goldman needs you to take,” Sven winked at Rusty. Rusty was confused.

  “If this is about Nick, we heard,” Dave blurted out.

  “It is, but we don’t know what happened. Goldman got satellite images and there is significant fuselage, so if there is a chance of any survivors, we need to get there, post haste.”

  Sven could see the gears turning in their enormous heads. They had written Saadi, Magyar, Jim and Nick off as dead.

  “How far into ‘you know where’ do we need to go?” Dave asked, now keeping his voice low.

  “We will get you coordinates, but you gentlemen need to saddle up right now. We need to get you to ‘you know where’ before ‘you know who’.”

  Sven smiled. He thought he was being funny. Rusty and Dave did not.

  As if choreographed, the two behemoths both threw their drinks down their gullets, energetically stood up, almost crushing Sven, and turned for the door.

  Rusty waved to the bartender and then pointed down at Sven’s head, “He’s got this.”

  Head and shoulders above the crowd, they moved purposefully to and through the door, the patrons parting like the Red Sea as they disappeared into the night.

  The bartender tapped Sven on the shoulder, “Were they with you?”

  “I wish,” Sven said somewhat effeminately, recognizing the bartender was “playing for his team.”

  The bartender laughed. “Do you need another, young man?” His accent was just barely noticeable.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet. And yes sir!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Giants

  Men can talk and never say a word. They can remain silent while they share an experience with other men and somehow this male unspoken language is understood. Predominantly, there are visual cues punctuated by vocal sounds, of which only a few are words. This silent communication is even stronger with men of action—with warriors. When a group of men have been trained in the same skillset, gone through the weeks, months, and years of relentless training and pain, and then have had to use that training in real-life situations, they can read each other’s intentions, moods, and thoughts.

  Rusty and Dave had been together a long time. Both had served in the U.S. Army and seen combat. Both were unusually large and strong. Both had given it a shot at law enforcement when they got out of the military, and both had independently decided it wasn’t for them.

  After a few years as a cop, Dave had applied to the DSS. He had been given an introduction by an old Army buddy who went directly from the military into Diplomatic Security. Once Dave’s training was complete, he decided to check in on Rusty to see where he had landed. Rusty had been working occasional PSD jobs, but nothing steady. So Dave introduced Rusty to the right people, and soon, Rusty too was a DSS agent. Dave and Rusty were reunited, and it felt so good.

  Sven had told them about the satellite images showing that Nick’s plane hadn’t done a nosedive into the desert but had actually done a sliding crash landing, and that there were several large sections of fuselage remaining—meaning there could be survivors. There were also tracks around the wreckage, which could signify that either survivors or Iranians had gotten to the wreckage first. Either way, someone on that plane could have survived! Goldman needed Dave and Rusty to head to the coordinates Sven had provided and recon the site. If there were survivors, Goldman needed them found. If there were bodies, he needed them recovered. If the Iranians had gotten there first, he needed to know that, too. Dave and Rusty knew how to get across the border. They were the guys to get this job done.

  After Sven had provided the mission brief, the giants immediately headed back across the river to their hotel to get their gear prepared.

  The hotel room was silent except for the sound of steel clanking, Velcro and zippers being pulled, and the snap-snap of rounds being loaded into magazines. Bug-out bags were checked. Steel plates were adjusted in plate carrier vests. Magazines were pulled from pistols, pistol actions were checked, then magazines slapped back in, and rounds racked. Hard sights were flipped up and down on their M4s, and eyes peered through optics to validate cleanliness. Mounted flashlight operations were checked, and charging handles were pulled to lock bolts in the open position, after which barrels were inspected, and then the bolt releases were smacked to put the bolts back into place. The newly loaded thirty-round magazines would be put into the rifles in the morning. Finally, some old school laminated maps of the area of operations were reviewed and
then folded into pack pockets. One never knew when GPS would fail.

  Communication between the men primarily consisted of looks and head nods. Each knew what to do. They had been through this drill many times. Each went through a checklist in his head. Each checklist item moved pieces of the arsenal that were spread across two queen beds to their appropriate combat-ready locations.

  Finally, a large emergency first-aid kit, which they called the “Oh-Shit Kit”, was inspected for key items such as cold packs, Epi-pens, antiseptic, burn gel, tourniquets, Quikclot, and sucking chest-wound seal packages.

  There were four hours till sunrise, which was zero hour for them.

  Rusty broke the silence: “Let’s hit the rack, buddy.”

  Dave responded with a smile. “Sleep fast!”

  Those four hours went by in a flash, and both felt they had just closed their eyes when their watch alarms went off in chorus at 5:00 am. Both had hit the sack with their tactical pants and t-shirts on. They sat up and immediately put on their boots, which had stood at attention at the foot of their beds. There would be no time for a hearty breakfast today. It was go-time.

  After putting on their shirts, they each grabbed an oversized Snickers bar left on the table the night before—breakfast of champions. They then put on their bulletproof plate vests and tightened the Velcro attachments. Dave and Rusty plugged their 5.56 magazines into their M4s and tossed the slings around their necks, allowing the rifles to hang on their chests. Throwing their bug-out bags over their shoulders, the men checked that they had key cards to the hotel room and unceremoniously walked into the hotel hallway.

  It seemed unlikely they would run into any hotel patrons at 5:15 in the morning, so they entered the elevator to head down to the street level. Their SUV was parked in a courtyard behind the hotel; several hotel staff had been paid nicely to keep an eye on it for them.

  As the elevator door opened, one of the staff members who had just inspected the wellness of their vehicle was standing at the door. It would be an understatement to say that his eyes opened wide at the giants dressed in full tactical gear with guns slung across their chests. But after an initial gasp, the young man simply made a small ceremonial bow and moved out of their way. After all, this was Istanbul. You see some wild shit in Istanbul, and you get used to it.