Chapter Three

 

Tuesday. Fresno started to cool off this time of year, getting into October, enough to keep the mosquitoes down, at least. Carter was at the kitchen table in his shirt sleeves, in a waiting mode, waiting and watching. For his unemployment check. For somebody to call or come by about the ad. And for the blue Camero.

One thing he wasn’t waiting for, when the phone rang, was a call from Horace.

“Uh, hi Horace.” He looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. Pretty damn early for a bartender to be calling. “Did I forget to pay for my beers last night?”

“No. You paid. You’re a good customer, Carter. I thought I should probably tell you something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Some guy came in after you left last night. Asked me a bunch of questions. About you.”

Carter gripped the phone a little tighter. He put his coffee cup down on the table and walked to the window, looking out.

“What kind of questions?”

“If you’d been in the army. If you talked too much when you got drunk, ever made trouble. If you were gay. Lot of questions like that.”

“If I was gay? Jesus. Was he gay?”

“I don’t think so. Flashed some kind of phony looking credential at me in his wallet. I didn’t press the point, wanted to see what he had to say. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No. Listen, was he wearing a gray suit, white guy, about my height?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Not exactly. Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”

“I didn’t see his car.”

Carter didn’t say anything for a minute, thinking.

“I asked him what it was all about, said it didn’t concern me. I thought the guy was an asshole, so I’m telling you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Horace, I appreciate it.”

“Well, that’s all. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Yeah. I really do appreciate it, man. Really.”

“OK. So long.”

“So long.”

He put down the phone, lit a cigarette. Jesus, I’m being investigated. He looked out the window again. Then he went outside and walked to the curb, looked down the street. No blue Cameros. He stopped at the mailbox on his way back to the house. It wasn’t time for the mail yet, but he opened it anyway, felt around inside. Sure enough, there was an envelope with his name on it. No address, no stamp, nothing but the name. It had to be left there during the night, when he was asleep.

He went inside, sat down at the kitchen table, and poured himself some more coffee out of the thermos. Then he opened the letter.

It was a questionnaire. No title, no identifying marks or numbers, just his name at the top. Education. Military service, if any. Have you ever traveled overseas? Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Are you on any special diet or medication? Ever had surgery? Do you drink alcohol? Smoke? How much? Have you ever had a homosexual experience? Do you know any foreign nationals? What is your political affiliation? It went on like that for two pages. The last page was almost blank, except at the top and bottom. Please describe your attitude towards terrorism, and the current administration’s efforts to combat it, it said. A line about testifying that all the above was true and accurate, etc. A place for his signature. That was it.

Carter got a pen, lit a cigarette, and started filling out the form. He spent about a half hour on the essay, writing carefully, looking up some words in the dictionary to make sure of the spelling. He was bent over the table, deep in thought, reading it, when the doorbell rang. He jumped half out of the chair, banging his knees on the table, spilling the coffee and knocking his third cigarette off the ashtray and onto the floor.

“Shit!” He grabbed the papers, barely saving them from the spreading coffee, but not in time to keep some from going into his lap. Luckily, it was cold. He grabbed a towel and wiped himself off, looked out the window.

There was a blue Camero parked in the driveway.

He went to the door, opened it. It was the guy.

“Mr. Carter Pearls?” the guy said, sounding official.

“Yes. That’s me,” said Carter. He was very conscious of the coffee stain on his crotch, holding the questionnaire in front, blocking the guy’s view.

“My name is Lawrence Brightman. I think you answered our ad in the paper, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in and talk with you for a moment or two? If you’re not too busy.”

“Yes. Sure. Come on in.”

He opened the door. Brightman stepped inside, looked around, his head swiveling like a surveillance camera. Carter motioned him over to the sofa.

“You want to sit down?”

“Thank you, Mr. Pearls.” He sat down. Carter took the easy chair, a little stiffly, not leaning back.

“Mr. Pearls, did you get the questionnaire that was left for you?”

“Yes.” He was still holding it in front of his crotch.

“Have you had a chance to complete it yet?”

“Ah, yes, I have.”

“May I see it, please?”

Carter hesitated a moment, then handed the paper to Brightman, quickly crossing his legs.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a minute to look it over.”

“No. Sure, take your time.”

“Thank you, I will,” said Brightman, giving him a completely artificial smile. He sat back on the sofa and held the paper up in front of him so that it obscured his face. Carter thought about lighting a cigarette, decided not to. He looked down at his lap. With his legs crossed, the coffee stain was only barely visible.

Brightman took his time reading the questionnaire. About halfway through the essay, he took the paper from in front of his face, gave Carter a hard look, serious. He put the paper back between them and kept reading for another minute or so. Carter saw him nodding his head a couple of times behind the paper, tapping his hand gently on the sofa. When he finished, he bent forward and put the questionnaire carefully down on the coffee table, squaring it up with his hands. Then he leaned back and crossed his fingers in front of his chest, staring at the ceiling. Carter could see he was about to say something important, crossed his own fingers, but lower, over what was left of the stain on his crotch. After a minute Brightman lowered his head and looked at Carter, that serious look again.
          “Mr. Pearls, it is clear to me from your essay that you are aware of the gravity of the situation now facing this country.”

Carter waited for him to say something else, shifted around nervously in his chair.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty serious.”

“Really serious, Mr. Pearls, really serious.” He paused. “Deadly serious, in fact.” He leaned forward, uncrossing his fingers and staring intently at Carter.

“Our President, Mr. Pearls, has been doing all that is humanly possible to insure the safety of this country, in the face of a menace of which we have practically no experience, no proven methods of interdiction, no guidelines, on which to rely. It is an awesome task, and a task that is obstructed, not only by forces from without, the evil axis of Iraq, Syria, North Korea, and other countries yet to be named, the gutless toadying of France, Germany, and other pathetic remnants of Old Europe, the impotent posturing of the United Nations, et cetera, but also by ignorant and even well-meaning factions of our own citizenry. The problem is not simply tactical or even strategic; it is Po-Li-Ti-Cal. Political. All thinking Americans can clearly see that this is not the time for petty infighting and party posturing, that we must put our differences aside for the present, not confusing the issue with peripheral squabbles over ecology and abortion, but keep our eye firmly fixed on the menace at hand. This is not the time for a changing of the guard, for making cynical use of a desperate situation just to advance one’s own personal ideologies or political ambitions. But sadly, Mr. Pearls, and sadness is a feeble word to describe the feelings that true Americans must have in the face of such short-sighted manipulation, the current administration is assaulted by such forces.”

Carter was getting dizzy from the intensity of this monologue. Man, he thought to himself, this guy is a heavy.

“At this very moment, even as we speak, tremendous pressure is being applied to the White House to coordinate all anti-terrorist agencies, to force them to share information along open lines of communication that will make all of our best efforts completely vulnerable to infiltration and exposure. Terrorist moles, people of Arabic and Middle-Eastern descent, in place long before the current dangers were apparent, will have a veritable field day in the wake of these disastrous revisions. And yet the President, our President, Mr. Pearls, is powerless to combat this cancer or try to explain it to the American people, without irretrievably weakening his political position, his chances for re-election, and America’s hopes for saving the world from the total anarchy of terrorist domination.” Brightman’s whole body was shaking with indignation. His eyes could have burned holes through a lead-lined fallout shelter. “And this, Mr. Pearls, THIS .... is where you come in. Do you mind if I smoke?”

This last line caught Carter by surprise.

“Ah ... No, of course not.” He watched Brightman whip out a cigarette and light it, smoother than a western fast-draw gunfighter, as he fumbled gratefully for one of his own. Brightman bent over quickly with a Zippo, before Carter could manage his, and lit it.

“With our established agencies on the verge of this ill-conceived political hamstringing, the administration has no choice except to go directly to the people, people of unquestionably American descent, traditions, and loyalties.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, seemed to calm down, almost like he was meditating. “The people, Mr. Pearls,” he said, quite softly now. “The people. And the people .... is ....” He pointed his finger gently in Carter’s direction. “.... you.” He paused, letting the significance of this sink in. Carter was poised on the edge of his seat, the importance of the moment, the direction it might take him, giving him a chill.

“I represent an agency, Mr. Pearls, that is so secret, so outside the structure of established government control, that even the President has no direct knowledge of its existence. In order to afford him political deniability, to keep him safe from the cynical accusations of those who would twist his sincerest efforts to protect our liberties into partisan party infighting, he is aware of our existence only in the vaguest of terms. We are under the explicit supervision and control of Donald Rumsfield, and answer to no other direction. The FBI, CIA, NSA, and all other federal, state, and local agencies are completely unaware of our formation or purpose, in order to protect us from exposure. We operate outside the law, with full authority to do surveillance, investigation, and a license to kill. Before I go further, Carter – may I call you Carter? – before I go further, Carter, I need to know if you can handle this kind of responsibility. You must reveal your work to no one, and may be called upon to be undercover, for days, weeks, even months at a time, if necessary. You will be part of a unique fraternity, receiving special training for highly specialized assignments. You will be paid for this work, well paid, I assure you, but this must not be your principle motive. Belief, trust, and dedication to the American Way is the only motivation that our agency can accept, and this dedication will be tested. That must be perfectly clear. If this is all too much for you, Carter, I will completely understand. No one is being asked to sacrifice the joy, comfort, and satisfaction of being just an ordinary American citizen, just a regular guy in a world of regular guys, to shoulder the burden of working to insure those things for the rest of us, and if you think you are not equal to the task, I will disappear, and you will never see or hear of me again. So Carter, think hard, and tell me, can you handle it?”

Carter was almost on his feet with excitement. This was the chance of a lifetime! Was he going to let it slip through his fingers, spend the next ten years waiting for Monday Night Football and trying every day to get laid by Fresno secretaries? No fucking way!

“Yes,” he said. He was on his feet now, and Brightman stood up with him, both of them staring into each other’s eyes. “Yes. I can handle it.”

“Good man,” said Brightman quietly, “good man.”

They stayed like that for a few seconds, and then Brightman sat down, gesturing for Carter to do the same.

“Carter, do you know the meaning of the word sleeper, as it is used in the field of espionage?”

“No, I guess not.”

“A sleeper is an agent that is planted long before the date of his intended use, whose job is to completely blend in with the society in which he is planted, waiting for the right time to be activated. The United States is, at this moment, sealed tighter than a can of Spam against the infiltration of foreign nationals. Every non-American coming over our borders is put under a microscope, investigated, interviewed, politically X-rayed down to the color of his underwear. Do you think for a moment that a monster as clever as Osama Ben Lauden, with his connections to Sadam Hussein, Kim Il-sung, Yassir Arafat, and many other high level dictators plotting the overthrow of the United States, could fail to predict that a direct assault on America would not produce such increases in security? We believe that long before nine-eleven an unknown but undoubtedly substantial number of sleepers and sleeper cells were planted in the US, at a time when immigration was relatively easy, and the collusion between all Muslim countries was little understood. All over America, immigrants from the Mid-East exist in open sight as shopkeepers, restaurateurs, repairmen, you name it. Most of these are hardworking immigrants, as American as you or I. Some, perhaps more than even we at the agency suspect, are conscious operatives. A few may even be unconscious operatives, with all knowledge of their mission erased through post-hypnotic suggestion, and only recognizable through subtle tell-tail behavior patterns. Investigative efforts directed towards these suspicious groups by established agencies are to no avail, as they may live completely normal lives, and will simply respond to these investigative efforts by maintaining their sleeper status, only to be activated when surveillance is discontinued.

“All over the United States, at this time, individuals such as yourself are being contacted and enlisted in an effort to combat these cancerous cells. The majority of these individuals have as their only assignment the surveillance and monitoring of suspicious, Arab-type persons and groups, on a permanent basis, ready for the moment that they may be converted into deadly terrorist activation. Let me assure you that no personal freedoms are being trampled by this. Persons and groups innocent of conspiratorial complicity are completely safe from harassment or infringement upon their rights. Regular reports of their behavior will be read only by highly moral and impersonal agents, such as myself, and no details of their personal or private lives will be used for any purpose, and only examined for signs of clear terrorist activity. In suspicious cases, support teams will be called upon to make more invasive examination of the situation, and no direct action will be taken until clear physical evidence of subversive activity is procured. In cases of such clear evidence, action will be taken that is completely outside the established framework of law enforcement, so that no signs of such action will be available to alert other sleeper cells to the recognition of their existence. Only special, highly trained operatives will be eligible for these extra-legal operations. I believe, Carter, that – subject to training and evaluation, of course – you fall into this higher, more elite group.”

Brightman stopped and stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. He brushed his hand through the hair on his head and took in a slow, deliberate breath.

“Now I’m going to ask you one question, Carter, and I want you to be entirely honest in your answer, will you do that?”

“Sure,” said Carter. “Ask away.”

“It says in your questionnaire that you fired a rifle in your military training. You have rated yourself an excellent marksman. Is that correct?”

“I was the best in my division.”

“Have you ever shot anybody?”

“No. Just targets.”

“Could you, if it were clear to you that this was a dangerous enemy of your country, and if ordered to do so, kill someone?”

Carter didn’t say anything for a minute. He’d thought about it before, actually, when he was waiting for orders after basic, maybe going to Iraq.

“Yes,” he said finally. “If I knew it was the enemy.”

“And if it was a terrorist?”

“A terrorist? Sure, they’re the worst. Look how many people they killed in New York.”

“Alright, Carter. Make sure you understand. We’re at war here, and we’re fighting fire with fire. They have guns, we have guns. They have cells, we have cells. You are going to be part of one of those cells. Soon, very soon, you will receive your first assignment. I’ll be there with you all the way, this first time, to evaluate your progress and eligibility. I can tell you the name of our organization now, but you must keep it a secret, never write it down, never mention it to anyone. You are part of a team, the Terrorist Watch Special Service Team. T-W-S-S-T, ‘Twist’.”

“Twist.”

“Yes. Twist.”

Brightman stood up, smoothing his suit with his hands. He looked at his watch. Carter stood up, too.

“Carter, I have to go now. In a few days, you will get a call from me. I want you to be ready to move. Pack a bag, tell your friends you may be leaving town for as long as a month. Make it sound normal, visiting your relatives, looking for a job, somewhere out of state. No one must be looking for you or worrying about you. When you return, you will resume your life here as if nothing had happened, until your next assignment. There must be no unusual changes, no ostentatious displays of wealth, no sign that your life has changed. You are undercover now, Carter, even in your own home. Get used to it. Be proud of it, even as I am.”

He walked slowly to the door, relaxed now, friendly.

“When I contact you, it will be by phone. Phone communication is now monitored in America, and I will use your code name. In the organization, we all have code names for communication purposes. You are Twister Four. I am Checker.”

“Checker?”

“Checker. You may have noticed that I have a slight accent, yes?”

          “Yeah, I did notice that.”

          “I was born in Prague, Carter, in what was then Checkoslovakia. My father was an American journalist working for Radio Free Europe, my mother a Czech dancer with the National Ballet. It was the sixties, a time of great pain for my people. As a small child I saw my father murdered by Russian savages, my mother raped and killed, as well, while I watched from a secluded hiding place in our home. After that, I lived like a dog on the streets, surviving any way I could until, as a teen-ager, I escaped and made my way to America, eventually finding my grandparents and claiming my American heritage. I swore that I would dedicate my life to the preservation of freedom, democracy, and the greatness of this country. It is a path from which I have never swerved, never faltered.” He turned to shake Carter’s hand. “It’s been an honor, Twister Four.”

          “Well,” said Carter, dazed but vigorously pumping Brightman’s hand, “for me, too, sir.”

          “Forget the ‘sir’ crap, Twister Four. Call me Checker. Think of me as your brother, your big brother.” He hopped into the Camero, the engine purring into life as he touched the ignition. “Don’t forget. Not a word to anyone, everything normal.”

          “Right.”

          “Ciao.”

          Carter watched the Camero back out the driveway and peel off down the street. What a car, he thought. And what a great guy.

 

 

 

          Yaro pulled into a gas station off the freeway to fill up before the ride back to Frisco. He went into the convenience store to buy a Fanta, then stepped into a pay phone to call Sonny. He rang three times, hung up, called again. It was the only way to get Sonny to answer. There was a click as the receiver came off the hook, then silence. That was Sonny.

          “Chubby? This is Checker.”

          “Go fuck yourself.”

          “Now, now, don’t be testy.”

          “How’s my car?”

          “Your car’s fine, tough guy. I won’t need it again.”

          “You got another guy?”

          “Yeah. A real dufus. I think he pissed in his pants when I made him a special agent. But you’ll like him. He’s been in the army.”

          “Great, but will he go for the story?”

          “Sweetheart, I test these guys. Round and round and up and down. If he could go for the load of crap I gave him just now, he’ll go for anything, believe me.”

          “So now what?”

          “Get things ready, baby. Let’s do the twist.”