Another Springtime Ch. 01

"Dace" Shepard, Lieutenant Commander, U. S. naval reserve, ex-U. S. Navy, is a graduate student in Germanics at the University of Washington. Widowed at 38 when his wife and their two youngest children died in an automobile accident in Italy during active duty as assistant naval attaché in Bonn, Germany, he opted for early retirement from the Regular Navy and civilian life with his surviving oldest daughter, then just 15. Professionally fluent in German and conversant in Russian; 6'–5" 200 pounds, muscular, medium build, medium complexion, brown hair, his beard – he grew it out once while at sea – tending to streaks of red in the sunlight. Some of his Navy time had been in submarine reconnaissance operations, and in Hawaii he was briefly involved in some investigative work with Soviet Bloc merchant ships where his Russian language skills were applicable. His professional objective now is an advanced degree in Germanic Languages and a university teaching position or some similar language intense professional work. His daughter is now herself at the university, a freshman in Humanities and Journalism.

Christine Stempler, turned 18 as she graduated summa cum laude from a highly regarded all-girls academy, daughter of professional, bilingual parents at home in Zurich and Sankt Gallen in eastern Switzerland. Interested in the Humanities, especially literature, art and drama, and anxious to move beyond her all-girls school years, which increasingly seemed to confine her, she is an attractive, vivacious and engaging young lady. The traditional, conservative attitude of her family and the strictness of her schooling have instilled strong values of personal integrity, yet the beginnings of her maturing as a young woman and the awakening of natural impulses and desires have been played down as less than worthy of her. Such has become increasingly the focus of her interest, but she has had very few resources on which to draw for a broader and more balanced understanding. She is innocent and naïve, and in many ways unprepared for the world at large; she is nevertheless intellectually keen and quick to learn, rather open-minded, but neither easily swayed nor frivolous in her thinking. Born in Switzerland; 5' - 8", 125 pounds, 36-22-35, long auburn hair, delicate features; physically healthy and trim, though not vigorously active; she has been anticipating something of romance and love in her future. Examples in literature are intriguing, but she wants to move on in her own life. Love and romance in real life and all that went with them were yet but an intriguing mystery. Her own parents had always been rather austere and school leaders unapproachable as well. She is alert and emotionally sensitive, but very vulnerable.

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Chapter 1

The Strangest Assignment

The woman on the phone only asked me a couple of questions to establish my identity for sure. They had to do with my naval service so I concluded that somehow the Navy was involved. Then she asked if I had a valid driver's license and a current passport, how was my German, and was I available for a possibly extended job.

I was in fact between jobs, as they say, though engaged in full time graduate studies and doing some temp work on the side while writing a few pieces for publication. At the moment, we were between classes at the end of the spring quarter and I was enjoying the short break. However, since I wanted to be honest in my responses, I was. Yes, yes, good, and yes.

She thanked me in an officious tone and invited me to an interview the next morning. We established a time and she gave me an address downtown, floor number and room number, and admonished me not to be late, and sounding like a distraught mother to a wayward child, and hung up.

That was that.

Mysterious, I thought. No company name, no reference, no nothing. It was mid-afternoon, the call had completely derailed my research and writing for the moment, so I hopped a bus downtown to scout the building and see what I could find. Nothing! On the same floor was a dentist's office and two other tenants, but the room number and those on either side were vacant... well, at least unmarked in any way... even more mysterious.

The brief meeting the next morning – no, I was not late – was very James Bondish, which is to say not desirable to me at all. My interviewer captured my attention immediately by identifying himself as a federal agent of the office of such-and-such. I had been very familiar with the organization of the Navy Department and portions of Defense and State from my work in years past, but this one was an assembly of words that ought to have been familiar, I thought, but I couldn't place it. I wanted to ask him more about it but he waved the idea away with a sweep of his hand. It was a distraction that he quickly added that acceptance of the assignment meant immediate recall to active duty from the reserve at full pay and allowances at my current rank.

Oh,really? I thought that something special. However obscure the agency, they clearly had pull in high places. Now, money isn't everything, but it's nice to have around in plentiful quantities when you need it.

The thirty-something man in a trim business suit was absolutely no-nonsense. They badly needed an agent not on their own rolls, he added in his direct manner, for an escort and protection assignment. They had done quite a bit of research on me, and the young lady to be escorted and protected had selected me from three choices they offered.

A young lady?

The one photograph I could see was a distant shot with her parents taken only a few weeks before. She looked to be in her late teens, tall, light brunette, nice – but too distant for details. The man told me the family was Swiss, spoke German and some English, and she was being hunted by a "middle-eastern syndicate" – whatever that meant. Was he being intentionally vague or was this an indication that he didn't know any more? My task would be to disappear with her, keep moving, and cover my tracks. There was an expensive-looking brown leather briefcase on the table. He opened it and indicated it was to be mine, complete with a wallet full of credit cards, $3,000 in cash in twenties and fifties – no, he was not concerned that I count it – and drop point locations, and, I noticed right off, a service-issue 1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic pistol and four clips of ammunition. I used to have one of those in my crypto safe aboard ship. I wasn't a firearms man and hadn't fired one of those things in years. I sensed this was a serious assignment, really serious. I waited for him to elaborate, but that was all he was going to say.

"Go, or no go?" he asked. This guy didn't waste words.

I thought about it for a moment. I was not a James Bond type, and moreover, didn't want to be. My Navy time and Russian language studies had lead to sufficient professional exposure to counter-espionage and KGB operational methods that I knew not to go there. That was not a lifestyle for me. Still, this seemed a reasonably easy assignment. Perhaps, I reflected, deceptively so. I ventured to fish for additional information. "Geographical limits on travel?"

"None."

"Who knows about me in the agency besides you?" I had to get some sense of how I might be tracked. It was an age old problem. The "syndicate" must have some knowledge of their own agents, but would soon sense that they had passed off their target to another. Any administrative paper trail was sure to become a focus for their scrutiny.

"Only me. I selected you after reviewing your file at Navy and will personally see to the payroll and recall matter. Navy has already agreed and awaits only my confirmation. Deposits to your NFCU account OK?"

Clipped, precise. No monkey business with this guy. Then the money aspect again. I had been relatively senior when I left active duty after the accident. With a teen-aged daughter, I felt my first obligation had to be to her. Graduate school and a more stable profession outside active service were more conducive to succeeding as a father, and my daughter was all that remained of my family. Lynn and the two younger children had died in a car accident in Italy a couple years before. I was recovering in some absolute sense, yet my heart was still in pieces and scattered.

A "protection" assignment? Was that for me?

"Yes, I suppose so." He had been pretty thorough. He even knew of my credit union account.

"Then," he continued in his precise manner, "I destroy all my notes and there is nothing at the agency to lead them to you. Nothing! Navy picks up the ball and carries you as on normal Navy assignment dedicated to this special duty." Clearly he knew the business, and had anticipated my concern. That was encouraging.

"Contact point for me?" Was I entirely on my own on this job? Any back up or logistics?

"In the briefcase... a cell phone number that comes to me direct. Call me on Mondays between 1 and 2 Pacific Time. There is also a dedicated e-mail address. I have one of your resumes and know you're computer literate. Get yourself a good laptop with all the bells and whistles. Special requests OK, periodic reports desirable. Let me know when you've used a drop point. Be brief."

The silence drew out a bit. I was impressed with his preparation, and could think of no additional questions at the moment and was probably trying his patience. The fact that they were providing me a firearm meant that they also foresaw the need for one. The somewhat less than welcome implication was that my life was on the line... mine as well as the young lady I would be "protecting." Me! U. S. naval reserve? Was I the man for this job? And precisely who were the "syndicate" he had mentioned... but, then, that didn't matter – "they" were the enemy now, and I thought I knew them from earlier experience at any rate. It occurred to me that my daughter might be endangered in the process, and that gave me pause; then – and this threw the entire matter into sharp relief –that someone else's daughter already was. That thought galvanized my thinking. I was going back to war!

My waiting elicited no further response. The money was good, the work challenging but hardly difficult, the company...the company, I realized, had potential.

"Go," I said crisply.

He pulled a tag from his inner pocket and handed it to me. "She's in this hotel room now. When can you pick her up and get on the road?" I recognized the hotel as only a few blocks away downtown Seattle, also the quite obvious sense of urgency in his manner and tone.

"Give me two hours or so."

"Fine," he looked at his watch, "11:30 then. She knows you simply as 'Mister Y.' There's a security man out front. What will you be wearing?"

"Well, a... I don't..." My choice, eh? OK, I'm going to be comfortable. "A dark sea-gray Pendleton shirt; solid, not a plaid." I had just purchased it a few days before and enjoyed its comfortable feeling. This fellow was thinking like a machine gun. I guessed I had better ramp myself up to some serious planning and thinking on my own. This was getting deeper by the second.

"She's reasonably safe for the moment, but you need to get crackin' and get her out of there and break the connection with her past!" Yes, it was unmistakable. His voice was sharp and urgent.

"Clear?"

"Clear."

"Call me at the cell number when you're underway with her." Without another word he stood, we shook hands, he left the brief case on the table, and walked out.

Tentatively, I thought, it seemed I was hired. Immediately I reviewed things planned that would have to be held up for the moment; and then recalled the specifications of the protectee... German-speaking Swiss, a young lady, just 18, and I suspected no slouch in the beauty department, else why was she being hounded by the "syndicate"?

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Making the Contact

I walked across the street to the Paradise deli and ordered a roast beef on sourdough and a lemonade and sat down to think this through. On the road... essentially hide in plain sight... constantly moving and leaving no trail behind me... us. Remember that, it's "us" now. OK, first thing I needed was a vehicle. If we were going to be on the road a lot it was going to be a comfortable one. I stepped over to the pay phone and called the local office of a car rental agency with whom I had dealt before. Yes, they had a Yukon available at one of their remote offices. With a little inducement – I had a lot of inducement in my new briefcase – they agreed to have it in town and ready and pick me up at the apartment in one hour. I went back to my sandwich and lemonade, and to read the brief sketch of my new companion and charge.

She was a Swiss national with dual Swiss-USA citizenship; given name Christine, family name Stempler; first language German, good English; just weeks into her eighteenth year; just graduated with honors from a exclusive all-girls Swiss-equivalent of a college prep academy in Sankt Gallen, in eastern Switzerland. Only child; parents deceased, no known relatives, no known contacts in the USA. Well, I thought to myself, this is going to be interesting... very interesting.

OK, let's get this ship underway.

The thoughts were coming together now. Get the car, load some traveling essentials – a basic list was already assembling itself in my head, and get up to the hotel and get her out of there. With my new laptop and battery-pack and charger – acquired only a month before – and a few clothing items and basic papers stowed in the back I was off to see what the day would bring, and at 11:17 by my watch I walked into the lobby headed for the elevator. The large clock on the wall said 11:14. Hey, pal, I muttered to the desk clerk under my breath, get it fixed!

As I stepped off the elevator on her floor and turned in the direction indicated by the small placard on the wall it was evident from the numbering that her room was at the end of the passageway with a dogleg to the right, and beyond a workman in overalls doing something with wiring and ducting. This was the security man evidently, and he eyed me while yet some distance away, initiated a cell phone call and I paused briefly until he waved me forward.

I found her room with just a few minutes to spare. Walking to the end of the passageway to absorb a little time I noticed that the hotel had a small, secluded verandah at the end of the passageway with an outside view, equipped with some nice patio furniture and a small table set in a nook somewhat secluded off to the right. The thought occurred to me that inviting her to sit with me here for a while might make our acquaintance easier than expecting her to simply invite me into her room immediately; sort of a neutral middle ground for a first meeting.

When my watch said it was time I knocked on her door as instructed. Now I was committed to the project and meeting her; from here onward it would be very embarrassing to back out. Her name was Christine, I reminded myself. Pretty name. When the door opened cautiously and she smiled at me I knew I didn't want to back out at all.

"Fräulein Stempler? Christine?"

"Mister Y?" she responded, unsure of herself and shy.

"Yes, I am Mister Y. My friends call me Dace. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," and offered my hand formally.

Her pleasant smile was friendly and she extended her hand in a ladylike manner. She may be young, I thought to myself, but she held herself like a mature and gracious lady. Her self-assured posture belied the fear that the recent events had superimposed on her life, as I was soon to recognize. What I did recognize quite clearly at first glance was that she was an exceptionally beautiful young lady.

Her hand felt delightful in mine, soft and warm. "May I suggest, Christine, that we sit a moment on the verandah and get acquainted?" I motioned to the chairs just a few yards away and off to one side and around the corner. She glanced down the hall and looked at the chairs and the large window, then turned to me and nodded. With a smooth motion she retrieved her purse and her room key from the small table adjacent to the door, stepped into the passageway, and let her door close behind her. My impression was that she appreciated the middle ground and felt relieved.

OK, maybe I am doing this right.

I selected the table around the corner and held her chair for her and she sat down, holding herself very stiff and formal, more than a little anxious probably, not saying a word. She was wearing an expensive-looking silk blouse and a strand of pearls over a skirt and Scandinavian-type clogs. After a moment or two, sitting across the little table and trying to think of something clever and impressive to say, my mind went blank. Well, for one she was carrying considerable 'top hamper' as sailors would have spoken of a ship with a very prominent superstructure. In civilian talk, her bust line, though modestly clothed, was prominent and very attractive. Her silky auburn hair was long, down her back and over one shoulder and breast. Pretty girls do that to a fellow; stop them right dead in their tracks. Her photograph had been very complementing, but had fallen well short of being able to capture her beauty on a piece of paper. She was strikingly beautiful, a classic, timeless kind of beautiful, and there was no doubt about that!

Her dark eyes were soft and kind, and very expressive, and she followed my every motion, measuring me, I felt sure, every way she could imagine to determine whether she could put herself in my care and keeping with confidence. I could hardly blame her; she was in what appeared to me to be a very bad situation, dependant on strangers for every little thing, and in imminent danger from unseen enemies.

"My condolences, Christine, on your parents passing." It was the appropriate thing to say, it seemed, yet I could hardly avoid the conclusion that she had lost a great deal and I wanted to let her know that I understood that and respected her for her courage. I looked up at her, into those dark brown eyes, and could sense her holding onto her composure with every bit of strength she could muster. My heart went out to her, and I felt very gallant that I had picked up some nice handkerchiefs from my bureau and could offer one to her. She took it and thanked me softly, and touched her eyes briefly to wick away the little bit of moisture, still struggling to keep herself together, I thought.

There seemed no acceptable way to broach the subject of our future together. It was on one hand a professional assignment and ought to remain that. Yet, the potential for personal involvement was nothing if not obvious, and, with a young lady of her beauty and attraction, even very desirable.

"They told me your family is Swiss. 'Christine' is a beautiful name for..." I hesitated to be quite so forward, but it seemed right, "for a beautiful young lady. But was itKristine," I gave the pronunciation a German inflection, "or something else?"

"No, my parents both spoke English as well as German, and my mother liked the name and my father thought it right for me as well." Her voice was trembling a little and neither of us seemed to know what to say. Yes, I thought to myself, she does handle herself well in English.

I had just begun to feel myself gaining some confidence in speaking with a pretty girl again when from somewhere in the distant haze came a heavy, muffled "poof, poof" sound. Immediately I had the feeling that it was a pistol with a silencer. I stood up quietly, a finger at my lips for silence, and took her hand and pulled her behind me against the wall and out of sight from the hallway and away from the window, to remain as out of sight as we could. There was a fantastic feeling of having her soft hand in mine, pliable and feminine and warm and I could feel myself getting distracted. Suddenly the door to her room crashed open – and that pulled me back quick – and then there was a lot of excited jabbering and then yelling and cursing. There were some English words in there, but mostly it sounded to me like Arabic, but what do I know? It wasn't German and it wasn't Russian, or anything like them... that I knew!