Heads or Tails?

Burn Notice marathon the same day I rent a season’s worth of 24 episodes? This is a problem I enjoy having.

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A New Resolution

Here’s the thing about Delaware. It’s far enough north so people think they can drive in the snow…but far enough south so they really can’t. What scares me more are the fearless SUV’ers with four wheel drive. Four wheel drive helps you get going. It doesn’t help you stop. It’s hard enough to stay alive in this business. I really don’t need Chevy S-10’s on thirty four inch tires fish-tailing all over the road.

I always pick a place in a parking lot that’s far away from other vehicles. This serves two purposes. First, I hate door dings. Also note that I never park downhill from a shopping cart return corral. Secondly, choosing a parking spot without anyone else near you eliminates the cover necessary for someone to place an incendiary device on your vehicle. It’s not preventative, but it’s precautionary. In addition, on a day like this, when leaving your vehicle, take note of the footprints in the snow. When you return, if you see the snow disturbed within reach of your starter, find another way to get home.

Using these safety measures, I entered Blockbuster. There’s nothing better to do on a day like this than to watch the first season of 24. Walking through the aisles, I make my selection, turn the corner and bump into Treasa Joyce.

Coincidence? No. I followed her here.

It’s not stalking, it’s surveillance.

She noticed my clean shaven appearance.

“I clean up well.”

I asked a few open ended questions and learned that she’s dog sitting tomorrow for a few friends that are out of town. After I pointed out that it’s possible, if not preferable, for two people, instead of one, to walk two golden retrievers, I have myself a date.

New Year’s dinner is still a solo event though:
Seared ahi tuna salad over bed of baby spinach.
Bacon wrapped filet mignon, topped with crab imperial and a lobster tail.
Grilled asparagus with balsamic vinaigrette.
Twice baked potato with smoked cheddar bacon cheese.
One bottle of 2006 Greg Norman petite sirah.
One bottle of extra dry champagne – at this point in the evening, quality won’t be paramount.

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Each One is Unique

I was ill prepared for the snow this morning. One to two inches. I didn’t expect it. I should have known that snow was forecasted. In addition, there are footprints running through the far edge of my back yard. Could be nothing. Both of these facts leave me unsettled.

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The Wrong Facade

Yesterday’s wind was wreaking havoc with my security cameras. Monitoring outside was like watching an earthquake. The black and white screens did not prepare me for Treasa Joyce.

Treasa, the real estate broker, had radiant red hair and stunning blue eyes.

I, unfortunately, had my moustache. Here’s a situation where I wanted to be remembered by her most favorably. Not for official business, but more so for off the clock exploits.

Given my Mc-Creepster appearance, our meeting was painfully proper. She left me a packet containing information on a variety of properties and left.

I retreated upstairs to shave and shower. I didn’t miss a spot this time.

Taking a circuitous route, I settled in at Buffalo Wild Wings for a platter of their traditional mango habanero wings.

Nothing to report, no progress made.

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Good First Impressions

I am expecting a visitor today. I’ve arranged for a real estate broker to stop by and drop off some information regarding properties in the area. The only thing better than a good safe house is a good safe house you were able to acquire at below market value prices.

I haven’t shaved since before I drove north to see Mother. My scruff is beginning to itch. While I know it’s going to hurt, it’s time to shave.

I’ve decided to keep a moustache. Not because it think it’ll look good, but because small changes to your appearance can have drastic effects to someone else’s memory. The real estate broker hasn’t won my business yet. Should I decide not to use their services, I’d rather have their single memory of me as far from accurate as possible.

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NJ Turnpike: "What exit are you from?"

The truck is packed and loaded. Based on intelligence, I still have time to pick up a coffee from the corner deli before I head back down the Jersey Turnpike. Traffic on the Sunday following Christmas is bad. After Exit 8 the lanes converge from five to three resulting in a parking lot where a highway once stood. This isn’t good.

I need a visual on an unknown foreign diplomat and I can’t see past the eighteen wheeler three vehicles ahead. When the GPS says you’re almost a five miles behind your target but forward progress is impossible, you start to go a little crazy. At this point, I think I’m singing better than the guy on my Ipod.

When traffic breaks, it’s time to focus on some mental math. It’s about 90 miles from here to the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Assuming no rest stops, at an average estimated speed of 70 mph the diplomat will reach the bridge in about an hour twenty minutes. After the bridge, the roads diverge and there are too many exits to monitor alone.

So I want give myself a 15 mile safety net. I can only let the diplomat get 75 miles before I catch up. So I have to go 80 miles in the same amount of time it takes the diplomat to go 75 miles at 70 mph. If I go 74.67 mph, I should reach the diplomat in about 63 minutes.

63 minutes driving about 10 mph over the speed limit on the Sunday after Christmas with out of state plates in a state that has quite the hefty deficit. Nice. At this point, I’m thinking that coffee wasn’t worth the risk of meeting a sworn representative of the New Jersey State Troopers.

Visual contact achieved.

Diplomatic plates, after the prefix “D”, have a two digit code that signifies what nation the diplomat represents. This provides some anonymity. My target’s plate starts with “DQM.” Bulgaria. I snap a few pictures of the license plates and a profile shot of the driver as discretely as possible.

Before I can begin to figure how Bulgaria fits into everything, the non-descript dark colored American made SUV seven vehicles back is now only four. ‘As possible’ must not have been good enough. It is occupied by two thirty something white males.

I use an RV in the adjacent lane to create a block in traffic and proceed the last nine miles to the bridge. Keeping with my cover, I used EZ Pass to pay my exit toll. The SUV picks a cash lane. I take the exit for Rt. 13 N into Wilmington. The tarp covered luggage in the bed allows me to enter parts of town where a clean SUV driven by two white guys would attract some attention.

Satisfied the combination of the space created at the toll and the city detour sufficiently evaded my tail, I head home and contact Mother to let her know I made it back safely.

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"Sharing a Drink They Call Loneliness"

There are two types of people in the world. People you trust and people that can get you killed. I used this afternoon to catch up with someone of the former category.

James Piston and I were assigned to a team a few years back monitoring the interface between organized crime and tax paying society. Our target was Salvo, an Italian restaurateur who paid his staff in cash and tended to purchase from companies with indirect ties to certain syndicates. Despite claiming that the red clam sauce was homemade, the restaurant was staying mostly legal. But based on the sourcing of various goods, however, it was possible that Salvo might be ‘urged’ to buy exclusively from mafia sponsored companies at above market costs then be forced to siphon remaining profits back. If we could understand how this dynamic worked, Mother could open a restaurant of her own and broil meatballs of organized crime.

James and I had drink and caught up.

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Nothing's as mean as giving a little child something useful for Christmas. ~Kin Hubbard

What did you get for Christmas? I got survival nutrition, performance clothing, various cultural manuals, a knife sharpener and an extremely large piece of dead cow for dinner.

I gave Mother an unopened envelope.

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Home to Mother

The holiday season, whether it be Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanza, Saturnalia etc, can be a difficult time keep your cover. While most look forward to the opportunity, or succumb to the obligation, to spend time with family. Those in my line of work tend to rarely have that option.

Many don’t have family. Some do not want to bring their loved ones in too close to their business. Others, like many of you, can think of much more enjoyable uses of their time—like ensuring your closet’s are in chromatic order.

I use this time to go see Mother in New York. This provides a good cover. When you tell people you don’t want or can’t see your family for the holidays, many tend to ask the follow-up question: “why?” The answer you provide will be memorable. In this business you don’t want to be remembered unless it’s by design. So, I’m off to see Mother for a few days.

Mother is not exactly what may have first come to your mind. Sure, there will be cookies and a hot meal (I requested steak), but it’s hardly that simple. Mother is not a person. Mother is control and command.

Military Operations Training on Humans for Essential Results.

This acronym comes in handy when communication is monitored.

“Yes Mother, I’m picking up ‘groceries’ as we speak.”

“Mother, ‘chores’ are complete. I’ll call it a day.”

“Mother, I could really use some money.”

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Happy Hunting

Through conversations with my next door neighbor, Doug Bronton, I come to learn he’s an avid hunter. This is beneficial for two reasons.

First, I know he has firearms in his residence. If I can’t get to my cache, I now have another option. Also, if I need to find a long term solution to a problem, so to speak, I can point the heat in his direction by using Doug’s gun to complete the mission. Depending on how our relationship goes, I’ll remain open to doing what I need to do while he has an alibi. The police will question him about his involvement in the incident because his gun was involved. Eventually his story will check out and, eh, no harm no foul. This diversion will give me enough time to create distance between the investigation and myself.

Or, Mr. Bronton is a potential fall guy.

Secondly, Doug game me some venison tenderloin two days ago. It’s been marinating in Italian dressing ever since. Here goes:

Cut venison thinly across the grain.
Julienne a medium yellow onion and sauté in butter and a splash of olive oil.
Add Kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper to onions.
Cook 3-4 minutes until they start to soften.
Season venison as desired.
Lay venison across top of onions.
Turn venison over without moving onions, so venison remains on top of skillet.
When finished, spoon onions and a piece of venison onto garlic bread.

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Beginning of the Storm

There’s a storm rolling in tonight on the East Coast. People tend to freak out when a few inches of snow are expected. They bull rush the grocery store to stock up on non-perishable items lest they get snowed in for a week’s worth of On-Demand. I avoid this scene like the plague.

Public places demand vigilance and attention to detail. I commit multiple rows of license plates to memory to check for a tail. I memorize what hand people use to lock their car or pick up a can of soup so I know what side is dominant in case they come at me with a weapon. Too many cars, too many people, too many chances to make a mistake. Even awesomeness is cognizant of its limits.

I steer clear of the mega-food-brouhaha and head out to Gary’s Tree and Limb Service. I have a package to pickup.

Gary clears fallen trees, splits the wood and sells someone’s nuisance as another’s treasure. His office is a converted trailer sitting amongst piles of mulch, sand, gravel and mixed hardwood—all for sale.

I enter through the front. To my right is Gary, smoking behind some reclaimed Salvation Army office desk. To my right is an extremely large black man. He’s too clean cut to be working on the machinery; he’s employed for other purposes.

“How much to fill the back of my truck with split oak?”

“Hundred. Go ‘round back, away from the road. The wood there is more seasoned.”

The five twenties I hand him ignore the register completely and instead delve straight into his vest pocket. It’s not like I work for the IRS. Without another word, I leave and make my way back towards a pile of wood. A month ago these logs probably crashed through someone’s shed during a storm.

After filling my truck bed, I walk over to the vending machine near the back maintenance shed. I make my selection, but instead of just grabbing my soda from the bottom tray, I reach up and retrieve an envelope taped to the inside wall.

It’s begun.

I get in my truck and head back. My thoughts are both focused and excited as I know I’m back in the game. Closer to revenge. Excited to the point of...mother fucker! I’m out of bourbon.

If I’m going to be snowed in for a day, I can brave the chaos of a pre-snow storm liquor store to make it tolerable.

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Working Undercover

There’s a fine line to working undercover. Attract too much attention and you’re sure to get noticed. This seems obvious. If it doesn’t, I hope you’re not in the next batch of recruits.

Given the nature of the business, certain tasks are going to attract the attention of local law enforcement. It’s only at this time that everyone remembers the previously overlooked person that stuck to the shadows and never made eye contact. Attracting no attention can only keep you covered for so long.

When the police go to canvass your neighborhood, you can’t have Ol’ Grandma Carrie saying, “That young fellow in Apt 4B, he never came out much. He just gave me the shivers.”

Your best defense is, first and foremost, not to need a defense. You shouldn’t even be on the police’s radar. They shouldn’t be looking for you. They should be pointed in the opposite direction. Ol’ Grandma Carrie should think you’re nice, remember you fondly, yet know nothing about you. When it goes down, she would have no reason to think you’re involved. In fact, despite her ignorance, she should swear that you weren’t.

In order to create this protection, there’s a rub. You need to be visible to be invisible.
You must allow the Carries of the world and all of her extended family in just so far that they trust you. This involves feeding them information. The key, however, is that the information must be verifiable.

So, yea. You need a good cover story.

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You can call me "Charlie"

Do you know the first thing they teach you in law school? Don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to. The first thing they taught me for what I do: Don’t get caught.

But they also say that your mission goes before you, your men and your morale. That last “e” is optional.

Sometimes you’re placed in a situation where you have to make a hard choice. Survive or fail. I choose the former, and I never accept the latter.

My name is Charles Gates. You can call me Charlie. And I get results.

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