Previous Chapter: Channeling the Verbal Deluge
My dad was in the Foreign Service and we moved every year or two. Occasionally even more often. All sorts of posts, including Asia, though mostly in Europe and the Americas. Even when we were officially in one place, we traveled quite a bit. At times for several days to a couple of weeks. Often with my dad as part of his official travels. Sometimes just me and mom, because she loves to explore and learn about new people and places. With a good ear for accents, I was able to quickly pick up each language and reach the point where the locals claimed I sounded more local than they did. Because I always had to make new friends in new environments, I learned to very quickly absorb new cultures. At first it was a defense mechanism, so I didn't stand out. As I got older, I found that it often endeared me to the young ladies. After a short period, I could easily understand their language, so could converse easily. I would often adopt exotic accents. Something that was generally well received. Even though I was so often the “new guy,” I could very quickly blend in, which sidetracked the attention of the bullies that like to pick on the newbies.
I’m of average height and build, with an average face, making me unmemorable. My general disguise is to make myself more distinctive in some way. That way any description focuses on the distinctive element rather than my average-ness. Perhaps ironically, being average in school never was a problem for me; I was always the exotic outsider and attracted a lot of female attention that I enjoyed.
I don’t begrudge my childhood, though it was frustrating to give up friends so often. I never felt betrayed by my parents’ moves and travels. As I got older, I started to look forward to the chance to learn a new language and culture. I’m still close to my parents, though they have no idea what I do for a living. Whenever I call, it’s always from a foreign country on a burner phone. That way there’s no way to tie me to them. Since they never know what number I’ll be calling from they’re forced to respond to a lot of telemarketers, but they understand. My cover with my parents is that I work as an international salesman, something very plausible to them given my background. About the only friction we have is probably the same for every child who stubbornly refuses to bring a serious significant other home: they want me to settle down and form a family. I tell them I’m not yet finished sowing my wild oats, though I’m sure as I get older they’ll get more insistent.
I learned early that I wasn’t disturbed by blood and guts. As a teenager, I was first on the scene when a café bomb went off. For many of the people dying, all I could do was make them a little bit more comfortable in their last few moments. What I learned was that I could respond in a calm and level-headed way under very stressful conditions. Subsequent to that explosion, I also learned I could be a cold-blooded killer.
The mother of one of my friends was evidently affiliated in some way with an intelligence service. I overheard her talking about how they knew exactly who was responsible for the attack, but he was too politically connected to bring up charges. I attracted her attention by mentioning something to the effect that I would permanently handle the issue outside the justice system. A couple of days later, she engineered a time for us to be alone and asked if I was serious. Being the young punk I was, I assured her it was no big deal. After I detailed what I had in mind, she gave me some intel on the target and asked that I go through with it. She said she had plausible deniability, but would really appreciate it if I didn’t mention her if I got caught. At the time, that meant nothing to me. Now I understand that her agency, or whoever she worked for, couldn’t be associated with the man’s assassination. If I were caught, and gave her up, she was prepared to take the fall to protect her organization. Once I understood the business better, I realized the chance she was taking on me. Sometimes I wondered what gave her the confidence to give me the job.
The target (at one point I made up names for them but found, I guess through Freudian slips, I was leaking information) regularly spent evenings on the roof of his house (in that part of the world just about everyone has flat roofs; too hot during the day, but perfect in the evenings). Since I was a kid, and since Parkour was popular at the time, I’d developed a lot of skills in running, jumping, climbing, etc. and easily made it up to the top of the several story building. I hid amongst the potted plants on the roof until it was dark. The target had been having a drink with dinner. Something I’d planned on. As it cooled off, he began to head down inside the house. This was exactly what I was waiting for. As he got up and headed toward the door, I moved quietly behind him. When he started down the first step, I jumped on his back and rode him head first down the stairwell. Even though he was taller and heavier than I was, my position on his back, “riding” him down the stairs, made that irrelevant. I made quite sure his head hit as he went forward, giving it a twist intending for his neck to snap. It went off without a hitch (I’ve since learned that was largely a matter of luck, but then, of course, I was sure it was pure skill), he never even twitched after he hit. I headed back the way I came, after making sure I hadn’t accidentally left any traces, and went about my normal evening activities. The news the next day remarked about how the target had had an accidental fall and how tragic it was his political career was cut short. My friend’s mother was very nice to me thereafter, although we never said another word about it.
As soon as I was old enough, I joined the military. I’d always been interested in guns, and the idea of being a sniper, but due to my family’s regular movements and the wildly different legal/cultural environments we experienced, I had very little direct involvement with them. It turned out that I’m pretty damn good at shooting from a distance and had no problems getting accepted into sniper school. I did well, but wasn’t spectacular. I did excel, though, at the scouting aspect. I had the ability to get in and out, unnoticed, with my intel. That got me attention from the special forces recruiters (they only recruit from the “inside,” never civilians) and when they found out about my language skills, I had my pick of service. As a sniper, I actually had very few kills. The average sniper might spend a decade crawling in the bush and only shoot a handful of people, so again, that doesn’t make me stand out. I did get very popular, though, regarding my urban ability to blend in and become essentially invisible in plain sight. That allowed me to do all sorts of scouting in urban situations, to place bugs, to observe and report (I learned to read an entire newspaper or magazine by occasional glances as I surveyed the area; that way if anyone asked me about an article I could give cogent responses). I enjoyed the military training, but it was just an apprenticeship for me.
The biggest challenge I see in this business is being patiently alert at all times. The vast bulk of my time is spent attentively waiting. I believe I’ve mastered the art of looking totally absorbed in something (sometimes music, generally a book or magazine) while using all my faculties to observe the environment. Many of my peers in the military found this boring and would often get restless or careless. I never found it so; I’d be spending most of that time working through detailed scenarios in my mind for fall back positions, alternatives, what-ifs, etc. I haven’t been surprised very often; usually I’ve already worked out a counter scenario for any event I come across.
One of the things I love so much about my job is that many clients provide an opportunity to learn new things. While generally the required skills overlap extensively, such that past experience provides most of the needed knowledge, now and again I get a gig that forces a stretch or causes me to develop new skills. My training in the Special Forces gave me confidence that I can handle anything and I love the challenge of learning something new and putting it to extreme use right away. The Special Forces training is intended to be as hard as it can be without creating a death trap; the goal is to push trainees past their breaking point. There are typically two sorts of responses people have when they’re pressed past that point: either they sit down and quit or they continue as robots. There’s no way to know which type you are until past that point, and no amount of previous training will tell you one way or another. The goal of the exercise is to take each recruit past their personal breaking point. For some that requires special tailoring, but most will reach it several times during regular training. If you’re a quitter, better you quit during training than when lives are on the line!
I was one of those that needed special tailoring. I’d already spent years training myself before I joined the military and was later recruited into the Special Forces. I was able to manage the regular training, though it sure sucked and pushed me harder than I’d ever pushed myself. To test me, they gave me this huge pack that weighed as much as I did (I was thinner back then, less muscle, so perhaps one-hundred fifty pounds) and started me on a dry sand beach in full combat gear for a forced march. The instructors had to tag team me, even without the huge pack they were getting worn out. I think I did some insane fourteen hours of this nonsense as we started at dawn and it was dark before I stopped responding coherently to their inquiries. They kept shouting that all I had to do was sit down and it would all be over: I could quit, get a shower, a meal and sleep; all I needed to do was sit. I have a vague recollection (much of the latter part of that day has remained fuzzy) of babbling something along the lines of “quitters don’t quit” over and over again. I was never able to recover any memories of the end of the test, but what was conveyed to me was even after they told me I passed the test, I kept going. It seemed they needed to tackle me. Though I tried fending them off, it was trivial for them to take my pack and equipment off, hose me off and drag me to bed. According to the stories I heard afterwards, I was in the top ten most hard-headed guys, though two of those pushed in the special training were quitters and thus never finished the program.
Sometimes a job requires running yourself to the point of exhaustion and it’s important for that robot to take over. Generally speaking, though, that’s only a viable strategy when you get placed in a “war of attrition” and are intending to have more reserve than your adversary.
For the most part I avoid stimulants, except when I feel I need them on a job. During normal operations, I stay away from caffeine and nicotine (except for some cigars relaxing at home between jobs). That way, when I need a boost, I haven’t already built up any resistance and thus won’t need dangerous levels to achieve the effect I need. Occasionally I’ll use speed, or amphetamines. It’s easy to build up a tolerance, so I use it only rarely and exclusively on the job. I’ve trained myself over the years to be able to wake up quickly, be alert for short periods and then go right back to sleep without needing any chemical enhancement, so I can do a lot of stakeouts without assistance. There are those times, though, when it’s necessary to stay awake, alert and active for extended periods. Over the years I’ve refined a progressive chemical cocktail I use that can keep me usefully functional for up to forty-eight hours. The result, though, is a hard crash that may take several days before I can recover. I only push myself that far when it’s absolutely necessary.