Malcolm Ferrier
mferrier@ferrierconsulting.com
TROUBLESHOOTER by Malcolm Ferrier CHAPTER ONE The four men circled the solitary figure warily. The
central character in this unfolding drama stood immobile, apparently
unconcerned about his would-be assailants. He radiated a sense of calm, but an
attentive observer would detect a focus that seemed to take in the entire room
at once. Suddenly, with a shout, one of the four attacked. He
rushed in with a powerful overhead swipe aimed at the defender’s head. Before
the blow could land the attacker’s fist was redirected by the defender’s
forearm, narrowly missing its target. The defender continued to apply force in
the direction of the attack, twisting his body and throwing the attacker to the
ground. The attacker threw his arms forward and executed a
roll that landed him back onto his feet. He rejoined the circling group as
another of the four moved in with a sweeping arm attack. Again, the defender
guided the force of the strike and sent the attacker crashing towards the
floor. Another roll, and the attacker moved back to join the circle of four. This pattern continued. One by one, the attackers
would move in only to be directed outwards again through the manipulation of
their own energy. It resembled a complex, free form ballet performed by
pugilists. A clap sounded. The motion stopped and the men stood,
sweating but relaxed. "Excellent, Jack. Those were random attacks at
full-force." The speaker was a middle-aged man with a British
accent. He wore a traditional gi with the instructor’s black wide-legged
pants, the hakama. Dave Petersen had taught Aikido, the “art of peace,” every
Saturday morning for years at this community centre in False Creek. While
still a young man, he had travelled to Japan to study with the founder’s son,
Kisshomaru. Morihei Ueshiba, or “the founder” as millions of
Aikidoists around the world knew him, had developed the art of Aikido after a
lifetime of practice. Born in 1883, Morihei was not a strong child. After
witnessing a gang of thugs beat his father, however, he began single-mindedly
studying the martial arts of the Samurai, including jujutsu and swordsmanship. Stories of his exploits are legendary. While on a
foray to Mongolia, the group with which he was traveling was attacked by
bandits. He was somehow able to dodge the bullets of their rifles. When asked
how this was possible, he replied, " Before the bullet could arrive I
would see a beam of golden light. It was a simple matter of avoiding this
light, and by doing so, avoid the bullets." Like a gunfighter’s life in the old west, many
martial artists came to test Morihei’s ability. Sometime in 1925, at his
country home, a visiting senior military officer attacked him wielding a
Samurai sword. He was able to avoid injury by dodging the officer’s attacks
until his assailant exhausted himself. After the officer fled in shame,
Morihei went into his garden to meditate. He felt himself bathed in a golden
light and gained a powerful realization. From that point on, Aikido for him
was a force of non-violence, a means of bringing peace to the world. Jack Findlay walked from the middle of the circle of
men towards the instructor. He felt that his situational awareness was
improving. He had been able to mentally create a dynamic spatial map of the
location and movement of each of his attackers. It was almost as if time had
slowed, allowing him to more easily deal with changing events. He suspected
his virtual reality training was helping his development in this arena. He
stopped in front of Dave. They bowed. "I think it’s time you started teaching here,
Jack." "Thank you, Sensei, but I can’t make the
commitment right now. I’ve got too many irons in the fire and I wouldn’t be
able to give it the attention it deserves. Someday soon, though." Jack had been coming to Dave’s class for the past
five years and considered it his home dojo. He had started practicing Aikido
when he was fifteen. Twenty years later, he felt he was only now beginning to
understand the subtleties of the art. "Well, just keep it in mind. There’ll always be
a place for you here." Jack nodded and moved to the door. He turned, bowed
to the image of the founder placed at the front of the sun-filled practice
hall, and left. He entered the locker room and changed from his gi into a
black Gazzarrini suit. Pulling his helmet and a briefcase from his locker, he
left the building. Waiting near the exit was his ‘94 BMW F 650
motorcycle. Bought used and in bad shape for a few thousand, Jack had spent a
few happy weeks last summer cleaning the engine and replacing worn parts. Now
it ran like a dream and made his excursions through congested Vancouver traffic
much more enjoyable. Placing his briefcase in the back compartment of the
bike, he put on his helmet and climbed on. He started up the engine and made
his way out of the parking lot onto 6th Street. Gunning the engine, he sped
along, weaving through traffic. After a short ride, he signalled a
left turn into the underground parking garage of an apartment complex
overlooking False Creek. He parked his bike in a stall near the elevator. Ignoring the lift, he entered the stairwell and
jogged up the steps. He reached the top floor, the sixth, and pulled open the
door to the corridor. Following it to the end, he unlocked 606 and entered his
apartment. The hunter entered Office Depot wearing Isotoner gloves.
They were useful because, like the old TV commercial claimed, one could pick up
a key from a flat surface while wearing the damn things. A measure of
dexterity would be useful today. Though their most important feature was that
they cover his fingerprints. The man’s name was Richards and he was handling the
stress well. The killing last night threatened to bubble up from the depths of
his mind and steal his attention from the external world but he was able to
keep it in check. There were more steps to take before the business could be
concluded. He would have plenty of time to come to terms with his actions
afterward. He went to the stationery aisle and picked up an
unopened box of envelopes and a shrink-wrapped sheaf of paper. In another aisle
he found a pair of scissors and some glue. He went to the till, paid, and
left. Down the street he stopped at a corner store and
bought both editions of the Saturday paper and a package of stamps. He had all
he needed. He winked at the cute girl behind the counter on his way out. She
smiled back. He went to his car parked up the street and climbed
in. A short drive up Oak brought him to the apartment hotel he was renting for
the month. He took the elevator up to his small suite and laid
the morning’s purchases out on the table. He filled a glass of water in the
kitchen and set it untouched by the supplies. Without taking off his gloves,
he set to work. Leafing through the sections of the papers, he would pause and
cut out a part of a headline. This continued until a small pile of words had
formed in front of him. He then removed the cellophane from the sheaf of
paper and took a blank sheet from the pile. Covering the page with a thin
layer of glue, he quickly but carefully took the headline pieces one by one and
pasted them on the sheet in sequence. He sat back after a time and looked at his work. "Perfect," he breathed. Pulling an envelope from the box, he addressed it
slowly, using a Bic pen held in his left hand. He attached a stamp, moistening
it with the water from the glass. Then he folded the now dry sheet and
inserted it into the envelope before sealing it shut. All that remained was a trip to a distant mailbox. Could life be any simpler? Jack stood in the middle of his living room, holding
a glass of water. He took a drink. He asked himself this question frequently,
and almost every time he returned to the apartment. He was not asking
himself if things could be any easier, but instead if he could further simplify
his life. He looked around the room. He felt his home should
reflect his state of mind, much like a Zen garden reflected the level of
enlightenment of a Zen master. It was furnished simply, with low wood furniture and
hardwood floors. The walls were dark and there was a desk set up in the
corner. It held a phone, a lamp, and a laptop computer, the latest Alienware. He crossed over to the desk. Flipping up the cover
of the laptop, he saw he had several email messages waiting. He opened his
email application and his heart quickened. He had several messages, but the
one that held his attention was a piece of spam with the subject line “Bu_y
Yourse_lf a Piece of Pa_radise.” He set down his water, sat down at the desk, and
opened the email. He scrolled to the end of the message, past the contents
describing a timeshare condo in Cabo San Lucas. The last two lines were
gibberish, looking like the artifacts of a bumpy ride through the Internet. He selected the two lines at the end and copied them
with Ctrl-C. He then went to his start menu and opened a program buried in his
System Tools folder called “Makeshift.” He entered a username and password and
the program opened showing a large blank text field and an unlabeled button. He pasted the two lines into the text field and pressed
the unmarked button with his mouse. A simple message replaced the gibberish.
It said " Most Urgent. 26/13." "Once again," he thought. Their meeting took place in Stanley
Park. The interior trails were not crowded, even early on a Saturday afternoon,
and it was unlikely that their muted conversation would be overheard. A
directional microphone used from a distance was another matter, but if they
kept moving and kept their eyes open such a listener could be detected and if
necessary, detained. It was easy for Jack to interpret the message he
received through the spam email but almost impossible for others. The 13
indicated 1:00 PM; the 26 meant the twenty-sixth location on a list Jack had
memorized years ago. In this case, the trailhead by the lake in Stanley Park.
He was here to meet his CSIS handler. CSIS, or the Canadian Security Intelligence Service,
was Canada’s secret service. An organization “with secrets to protect, not a
secret organization” as was stated on the home page of its website. Little
known to most Canadians, frequently forgotten by senior government ministers,
CSIS was nonetheless an important element of Canada’s national security
network. Like any organization of its type, CSIS had a number
of posts to fill, both visible and invisible. In addition to the entry level
Intelligence Officers, or IOs, CSIS had on their books scientists, doctors,
engineers, computer specialists, and other professionals. They also had some
operatives who were not on the books. Jack Findlay was one of them. On occasion, CSIS had a need for highly skilled,
independent agents. These men and women were selected from the population
based on characteristics that made them suitable for dangerous solo
operations. They would be called upon in times of need when internal agents
could not be utilized due to security concerns. Carefully screened by
intensive psychological profiling, their motivations for doing this sort of
work were not financial, but moral. Jack’s handler was Steven Blake, a burly Newfie with
white, receding hair and a missing left arm. He had lost it shortly before
Jack had joined the CSIS independent network. "How’ve you been, Jack? It’s been months." "Well. Doing some consulting, trying to enjoy
life." "How’s the training?" "Aikido or virtual reality?" "Both." "They’re coming along. I’m plateauing with the
martial arts, but that’s nothing new. I’ll just keep at it, and a spurt will
come. The VR is another story." "How do you mean?" Jack paused. It was difficult to verbalize, but he
had to try. "I feel like it’s changing me. I get so involved that I
forget where I am. I think my reflexes are faster and my ability to handle
stress is increasing. But it’s more than just that. I feel calmer, but more
aware. It’s like having eyes in the back of my head." "You’ll have to come in soon and we’ll run some
tests. This may need to become part of standard training." Blake’s
stride quickened. Jack knew it was time to move on to business. Blake’s voice
lowered. "We’ve got a real problem." Blake’s phone had woken him at 4:00 AM last night.
It was Donald Grant, the Premier’s chief of security. As the Director of the
BC section of CSIS, it was Blake’s job to deal with intelligence emergencies in
the province. He listened as Grant outlined the events of the murder earlier
that night. "I’ll put all our available resources on
it," Blake replied after the briefing. "The Premier wants your best." "He’ll get the best." After the talk with Grant, Blake had called the night
watch duty officer at CSIS Vancouver Section headquarters and put into motion
the process that would get the regular investigative unit started on the case.
Then he had gone to the computer at his desk and produced the encrypted spam
that informed Jack of the meeting in Stanley Park. After hearing the details of the assassination,
Jack’s mind went into high gear. "This sounds like a real pro. No
fingerprints or shell casings, and an inspired plan to get the target out of
his car for an easy shot. I have a feeling Richard Deck may not be the
last." "That was our take, too. This may be some kind
of extortion operation or even terrorist activity. That’s why I need you to
look into this." "Have you assigned other agents?" Jack
had faced problems in the past when the right hand didn’t know what the left
was doing. Running into another CSIS independent in the field could have
hazardous consequences. "Just the usual staffers. Keep a low profile
but get this resolved. Resources will be available as usual, but if I know
you, you probably won’t call ‘til you need the cavalry." Jack smiled. Blake knew that Jack relied on his own
resources. Budgets were tight, even in the secret service, and Blake had no
patience with agents who would call in a strike team at the slightest provocation.
CSIS worked with limited resources but still had to carry out its objectives. The concept of the CSIS independent network was
developed with this in mind. A solo operative presented a minimal security
risk while allowing maximum mobility. Anonymous because of their limited links
to their agency, they could move in environments that would be treacherous for
a known agent. And Jack had moved in some very treacherous
environments. "I’ll keep you posted through the usual
channels," he said. "Is there anything else?" Blake handed him a file from his briefcase.
"This is it. Some photos, the police report, and a dossier on Deck. Not
much, but it’ll get you started." "Thanks. I’ll let you know when something
breaks." "Great. And Jack?" "Yeah." "Be careful. This one’s a killer." Jack leaned back and stretched. The contents of
Blake’s file covered his desk but it wasn’t much to go on. Pictures of the
body slumped in front of the garage door. A police report describing the
compromised garage window and door opener. The dossier on Richard Deck that
gave the details of his political career. Of course a man makes enemies in
politics, but how many would be willing to kill? He’d have to visit the site. Try to put himself in
the shoes of the man responsible for the murder. He would go at dusk tonight
and try to duplicate the actions of the shooter. This method had worked as a
starting point in the past. He
thought back over his time as an agent of CSIS. He remembered how it all
started, almost ten years ago…