THE CONTRACTOR Page 3

  “Nick, let’s get out of here!” Saadi yelled from behind me. That was solid advice: we had work starting in another two days, and we didn’t need to be in any hot water. We tucked our firearms back in their hiding spots and ran out onto the street. I grabbed the first person I saw with a cell phone and told him “Polisi Aramak” in the calmest bastardization of Turkish I could muster. Then the three of us walked away from the scene as if nothing happened. I hoped the guy with the cell phone would call the police like I asked. About a half block from the bar, I threw my arms around my two team members as we walked silently. We had been through our first real firefight together. It was a good day.

  CHAPTER TWO - The Principal

  Rusty and Dave were two of the hugest guys I had ever seen. They weren’t muscle-bound bodybuilder types; they were good ol’ beef-eating American guys. Unbelievably, both protective specialists were about six-foot-six and two-hundred-ninety pounds. They didn’t train themselves that big—they were born that big. I was friggin’ jealous. Imagine having eighteen-inch rock-hard arms and never having lifted weights. Bastards!

  Rusty had already been working in Istanbul for the past year, taking a three-month break in between assignments. If anyone ever resembled a Viking, it was Rusty. His bald head was rimmed with strawberry blonde hair that transitioned into a red beard he kept cropped short. Black sunglasses obscured his steel blue Nordic eyes. His handshake—“firm” would be an understatement.

  Dave’s quiet voice and smooth walk was unsettling in contrast to his imposing bulk. The bear of a man had dark hair that he kept slicked back like a 1940s movie star, but he had a goatee with tinges of blonde and red. Not only did he have ten years of experience in both Executive Protection and High-Risk Protection, but he was also an expert marksman, having held several national titles for IDPA marksmanship, and instructed on and off at several EP training facilities around the world.

  Saadi, Merlin and I had just found out that these were the other two members of our little team. I was assuming they were the MPs in our group; MP not meaning military police, but Meat Power! They were the shove-and-shoot guys, the imposing force on our team. If you needed people out of the way, crowds held back, some entrance blocked, or something really big moved, they were the guys with the Meat Power! Operationally, they were DSS (Diplomatic Security Services) agents, who apparently had been assigned as members of the group to keep the consulate happy.

  There had been some issues with taking HR (High Risk) agents, meaning people who had to carry large guns and a lot of ammo just to protect their principal on the mean streets of east bumfuck (Iraq, Afghanistan, the Philippines, Africa, etc.) into the Executive Protection field. Mainly it was the lack of polish. Most of the HR guys came from some SPECOPS field, had some dutty mouths, drank a lot, and were relatively brazen in their approach to protecting their clients. This just didn’t translate well into the Versace-suit-wearing, limo-driving, cocktail party-attending crowd. Even though they (the great unknown they who arrange all this stuff) carefully picked the team, they still wanted to make sure that a couple of the PSAs came from the Diplomatic Corps, directed by an RSO and charged with maintaining etiquette and all that sorta thing. That was kind of a joke, as you will see later.

  Now in Istanbul, our company arranged a get-together for all the agents. We had free food and drink and an opportunity to meet the other teams as well as management. We had all done the hand-hold, back-smack, and acronym-assault necessary to establish each other as real operators, even though we each knew that the other wouldn’t even be in the same room if they weren’t the real deal. That was just the way it was. You had to feel the man’s handshake, look him in the eyes (and they had better be bloodshot from two days off), and know he understood the lingo. So, with the rituals complete and after a little meet-and-greet, we all grabbed a seat.

  “Gentlemen,” a very gaunt, leather-skinned Turkish man started from behind a small podium at the front of the gathered group, “Welcome to the Sultanahmet Angel’s Home hotel and beautiful Istanbul.”

  Welcome indeed! Kicking back on the wide rooftop terrace, a cold Red Bull and vodka in my hand, the sweeping blue of the Sea of Marmara to one side with the towering white minarets of the Blue Mosque to the other really set the mood. This wasn’t going to be some flea-bitten back-street Fallujah assignment. This was a James Bond, shaken-not-stirred, Walther P-38 assignment.

  Merlin and I sat back in the gray metal chairs, clinked glasses over the yellow and red flowered tablecloths, and took in the aromas of ocean and exotic cooking. Dave and Rusty sat across the terrace on a green and white striped swinging lounge, which I was sure was going to break under their combined six hundred pounds. The sun was bright, and the entire entourage was wearing sunglasses. It was a beautiful sight, I must admit.

  My current employer, EUSIS (European Security and Investigation Services), had really gone all out on this one, renting out the terrace for our briefing and giving us one night in fine Turkish accommodations before giving us the details of our mission and sending us off to some small apartment across the street from our principal’s lush hotel suite.

  Our practically mummified emcee did the blah-ditty-blah for a couple of minutes, cracked an American joke (nobody laughed), and then passed the mic over to the DL (detail leader) to get us on our merry way. Our leather-skinned local passed out manila envelopes as the DL spoke.

  “Hope you had a nice weekend and enjoyed your accommodations.”

  The DL looked Italian to me; I never got to find out because that was the last time I ever saw the guy. But anyway, he had a dark, thinly pinstriped suit that was perfectly tailored. He had broad shoulders and a well-tanned face with a thick dark mustache. The two-hundred-dollar tie and equally expensive coiffure let me know he was a muckity-muck in the company, and probably hadn’t had his ass on the line for many years. But that was cool with me, because I had a team—I just needed G2.

  “Please open your envelopes. In them you will find a dossier of the principal,” the DL told us.

  He then went on to verify who the Team Leader was, who walked where in whatever formation, where our little hooch was going to be, and other innocuous items of interest. A decent amount of advance work had already been done, which was great. Being out in the open, he wasn’t going to discuss any items that could be of interest to eavesdroppers—all that type of intel was in the envelopes, which we had each popped open (okay, some of us tore it open with our teeth)—anyhow, it was all in there, and went something like this:

  Fahri Magyar was the Turkish Ambassador to Iran. He was forty-seven years old, born in Ankara, graduated from Georgetown University in the U.S. with a Bachelor’s in Political Science, then his Ph.D. from the Institute of International Studies in Geneva. He was married, had two teenage children, no mistress.

  Our assignment was to provide escort to and from meetings he would have in Istanbul, Ankara, and a yet-to-be-disclosed Iranian location as part of his country’s involvement in the war on terrorism. We were to be low-profile in the city and would be driving hard (armored and armed to the teeth) everywhere else. There was, as I already knew, a team of weapons inspectors made up of Turkish, British and American nuclear scientists who would be inspecting sights in northern Iran suspected of either storing nuclear materials or acting as way stations in the illegal transport of said materials. So, to me, this looked like it was going to be the best of both worlds. There would be some high-society stuff and there would still be smatterings of gunnin’ and runnin’. Hey, crossing the border into Iran was hairy no matter who was in the car. This guy was certainly a target somewhere or they wouldn’t have teams assigned to him.

  Speaking of teams, there would be two so that we could rotate shifts and have advance parties and all. So we were all to report to our hooches and ready all of our equipment and prepare for day one. After a few more minutes of formalities, we were ordered to eat and drink to our heart’s content, get to know each other, and then catch cars at noon. We did
exactly as commanded, as there are just some orders you want to follow—like indulging. We all figured we might as well do it then, cause when the job started, there would be little time to plan meals on your workdays. Many times, you just went without. It was always more important that your principal’s ass was covered than whether you got to eat.

  After several loud rounds of scotch shots, in which we were all amazed that there no shot glasses were broken, we decided that team names would be necessary, both for coded communication purposes, and also because they were fucking cool. In the box (sandbox—Iraq), many of the HR protective teams chose names like “Team Viper” and “The Archangels”. We chose Team Cadillac. The other team called themselves The Avengers after some 1960s British television show about spies.

  After the conversation had worn down and we basically got bored, we meandered our way down to the waiting cars— slick black Cadillacs by the way—and headed off to our apartment blocks, which, as it turned out, were not half-bad.

  While in Istanbul, Ambassador Magyar had a suite at the Istanbul Ritz-Carlton. The Avengers were tasked with protection of residences in both Istanbul and Ankara, while our team was the travel team. The Avengers got an apartment directly across the street from the hotel. They would be able to have surveillance on Magyar’s room from their vantage point and would also rotate personnel pulling halls and walls during the night. During the day-movements of the Ambassador, The Avengers would walk a loose box around town, attempting to keep a relatively low profile—not the easiest thing, we all know. When Magyar traveled to Ankara or to Iran, it would be Team Cadillac that provided armed escort. This being the case, our apartment was actually a couple of blocks from the hotel, situated perfectly near Taksim Park with easy and quick access to both the hotel and the main thoroughfare out of town.

  Our apartment was a nice two-story townhouse with underground parking for our two armored Tahoes. They were equipped with all the latest navigation equipment and communication devices. They were hardened bottom and sides, equipped with tires that wouldn’t blow out, and had ballistic tinted windows all around. It turned out that Saadi had a relative in the automotive sales business, and he had really hooked us up. He even went as far as to have various sorts of weapons racks and slings installed in the vehicles for easy stowage and/or use of firearms while in transit. Very professional.

  That evening over cigars we all discussed our vehicle assignments, emergency duties—especially in the case of an AOP (attack on principal)—and other logistical items.

  Merlin would drive the lead vehicle with Dave, and Saadi would drive the principal’s vehicle with myself being the body agent. Rusty would be the travel tail-gunner. In case of a hit, I would be responsible for keeping the principal down while Saadi gunned it past the lead vehicle, which would then provide tail gunning for any follow-up attack from the rear. If the attack came from the front, Merlin would use his vehicle to block any further forward assault on the principal’s vehicle, allowing us to J-turn and di-di-mao off the X. Of course, we also knew that if the shit hit the fan, all the planning in the world wasn’t going to make things perfect. Stuff always went down different than in practice. You try to cover every possible outcome, but somehow Mr. Murphy still steps in and slams you with something you didn’t see coming. That is where the experience of the team’s individuals kicks in. Reaction to the ever-changing situations governs success at that point, which is why you have to trust your teammates so much, and why you have to run dry drills all the time.

  So, for a couple hours we walked our formations and moved as if in vehicles in the middle of the living room to try to come to full agreement on how and when we would move under various circumstances. We practiced lead driver down, tail driver down, body agent down, multiple vehicle assault, principal down, and every other damned thing we could imagine. It became a game, but a deadly serious game. The mood slowly moved from the “party with your mates” attitude to one of seriousness.

  Starting the next day, each of us were putting our asses on the line once again. It was a sobering feeling, but one we all relished. We had purpose. Our lives had some meaning. We didn’t just have to sit behind a desk for thirty years, typing responses to emails, have phone conferences about the same shit you had the last hundred phone conferences about, or spending our entire adult lives in a climate-controlled cubicle hell. We moved, we grooved, we carried guns and traveled the world. Tell me—what is better than that? We ensured the lives of those who played highly significant roles in the history of the world were able to do so safely. And we had some fun doing it, with others who understood what it meant to be in the line of fire. No matter how uncomfortable the environment, or how shitty the situation, or even how much pain you may be in, it was still better than slowly rotting in an office where your name will never be remembered.

  In this world, you remembered everybody. At home, I swear to God, my mind atrophies. I can barely remember my next-door neighbor’s name. I have to make lists to remember to do things around the house. My mind rests. There is no threat, no adversity, no real necessity to be sharp. If I am high-speed or a slug, it doesn’t really matter because either way I will survive. But when you are on the job, everything is amplified. You remember everything—you have to! I can remember everyone I have ever worked with, whether they were a piece of shit or a friggin’ hero. I can remember them in vivid color. I can remember things we said, and places we traveled, smells, sights—all like they were yesterday. Nothing is gray. So I had no real complaints. Of course, I was gonna bitch and moan—that was part of the job, too—but like the others, I loved my job.

  Okay, so I won’t bore you with the details, but we had our initial meeting with Ambassador Magyar, everyone got introduced, we did a threat assessment with him and gathered a bunch of personal information as well as his itinerary for the next month and explained our positions in the protective detail to him. That all went dandy. We explained who would do what in an emergency and talked a bit about security driving scenarios so he wouldn’t panic if we had to ram our way out of someplace sketchy.

  The first few days were going to be in city details, basically traveling to and from various offices without much fanfare. On Thursday he was going to make his first trip to Ankara to meet with the weapon-inspection team representatives and be briefed on the situation at the Iranian border.

  It was all basic stuff that went off without a hitch. As a matter of fact, it was sorta boring, but it was a good opportunity to learn a bit about the Ambassador’s personality, the personal dynamics of the protective team, the details of the vehicles, as well as Saadi’s and Merlin’s driving habits.

  While in Ankara, we kept a wary eye out for any PKK goons, but they never materialized. Magyar’s wife was at a speaking engagement in the city, and the two met for lunch and dinner and then spent some time together in their suite doing whatever kids do. I also got some time to head out of town to a police range and blow off some rounds. It wasn’t much more than a field with a bunch of burms and some target frames set up for moving live-fire exercises, but it sufficed. I hadn’t played with an AK since the sandbox, so it was nice to get the feel again. I stapled a bunch of humanoid cardboard targets to the frames, messed around with various stock positions, and wound my way through the assault course with ease—mainly because nobody was firing back at me.

  Our highly armed urban chauffeur service was finally good to go, and after what seemed to me an eternity, our band of merry men was off to escort the illustrious Ambassador across the Iranian border.

  Unfortunately, it looked to me like it was going to be a clusterfuck. With our two vehicles and the four vehicles that held the inspection teams, we looked like a bloody black wagon train cruising across the Turkish wastelands to what I considered to be an inhospitable country. Nobody on my team felt comfortable with the route, nor with the pace. We were concerned with our principal and prepared to gun and run if we had to. We all felt better with the pedal to the metal than crawling along at
the pace of the slowest driver. We felt like sitting targets as we meandered closer and closer to the Iranian border.

  Helplessly trapped in the back seat of the Tahoe, I leaned forward to whisper to Saadi: “Jesus Christ, what are we doing, like fifty miles per hour?”

  “Yeah, I know, I keep looking into the mirror to see if they are still with us,” our team leader responded without taking his eyes off the road.

  “How much further?”

  Saadi reached for his GPS on the dashboard. “We’ve got another twenty minutes. That’s about fifteen miles at this speed.”

  “Shit, I can run faster than this,” I told him.

  “Everything okay?” our principal asked in accented English.

  “Definitely. We will be at the border in about twenty minutes.”

  “Good,” the man in the dark suit said, looking back down at his briefings. “I am gonna need you to stop a mile from the border. Just pull off the road for a minute. I will show you where.”

  “That wasn’t in the plans sir,” I told him, doing my best not to conclude he was a dumbass. The border was basically in a no man’s land, and we really didn’t want to be sitting at the side of the road for no good reason.

  “I know that. Nevertheless, we will need to stop very briefly. I am sure you gentleman can provide security for a minute or two.”

  “Absolutely, sir.” Okay now, what the hell is he thinking? I had to ask myself. I would know soon enough. I tapped my earpiece and informed the other drivers that we would be making a very quick pull-off in about fifteen minutes, so be prepared. Being prepared meant the detail would lock, load and un-ass the vehicles to provide 360-degree security for the wagon train while Mr. Ambassador did whatever it was he was going to do. I was pissed at the time, but he turned out to be one smart bastard.