Randy White - Shark River

I said, “I’m still listening.”

“It was in the second year of the President’s first term. He believed, and not without cause, that certain subversive groups inside and outside the country had become so powerful that there was no quick and legal way to deal with them. He thought the Republic was in real danger-and let’s face it, he was probably right. The President had also developed a mistrust that bordered on hatred for the media. Way too many leaks from some of the highest branches of government. So he did something very bold and very smart but absolutely illegal.

“The President came up with an idea. Why not create his very own team of intelligence operatives? Provide those operatives with the finest training this nation had to offer, but fund them through the private sector. That way, there would be no money trail. There was no legal obligation for him or any of his staff to make the existence of his team a matter of public record. This still doesn’t sound familiar?”

Actually, it was news to me. I’d never known for certain how the organization had gotten started. I said, “This is the first I’ve heard any of it.”

“Funny thing is, Doctor Ford, my diplomat’s instincts say you’re telling the truth-for once. Which maybe isn’t so surprising. The way they set it up was, they created a classic series of isolated, working cells, all on a strictly need-to-know basis. From all I’ve read in those files, I’m convinced that many if not most of the men involved never really did know who they were working for.”

The phone to my ear, still watching the fishing guides through the window, laughing, joking about something. I thought, You’ve got that right.

Listened to Harrington say, “The President’s closest friend and adviser was one of the wealthiest men on earth. They had the same political views, the same fears. Presto, instant financing. The President had earned the respect and devotion of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. That gave him immediate, unquestioned, and clandestine access to all military records. So those three men-all dead now-decided to go ahead with the plan on an experimental basis: Create a super-select special warfare, intelligence-gathering unit that operated at the President’s pleasure and answered only to his administrators. Here-you want me to read the unit’s covenant statement? One sentence, it defines what the team was designed to do and the methods it could use.”

I said, “It’s an interesting story so far. Go ahead.”

“Okay, this is from an unsigned White House directive: ‘This civilian organization shall be established to serve and protect the best interests of the United States of America through the use of any and all means the group’s members deem beneficial to the well-being of the nation.’ How’s that for telling the legislative and judicial branches to go to hell? ‘Any and all means necessary.’ Are you sure you’ve never heard any of this?”

Actually, there’d been a period in my life, while working in Asia, that I’d kept a coded version of that mission statement in my pocket day and night; carried it around like a good luck charm, or a declaration of absolution. “Nope, Harrington. But, like I said, it’s a good story.”

“Hal.”

“Okay, Hal.”

Harrington told me how the President and his men had set it up and made it work. Listening to him was like listening to an unexpected biographer describe unknown components that designed my life. The men who created the organization had a name for us: The Negotiators. They later changed it to Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group as a cover, but they continued to refer to us as The Negotiators in private correspondence.

They took it very, very slowly. They decided that a top priority for members of their new organization would be intelligence. Brain power was an imperative. So what they did was they reviewed results from the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Tests. Then they coupled those results with IQ scores from high school or college. Because they had a service pool of several million men to choose from, they came up with a lot of good, bright prospects.

Without much trouble, though, they narrowed it down to a couple hundred candidates. The people they went after didn’t even know they were being considered. That’s when the real culling process began, according to Harrington. Men with wives were immediately eliminated. Same with men who had large or interactive families. They wanted men with few family ties. Men who could disappear for many months, or maybe forever, and not have pissed-off mothers or sisters asking embarrassing questions.

He said, “Athletic aptitude was another major consideration. The training the candidates had to go through was extremely physical. So was psychological stability. The sensitive, artistic types were dropped right away. There’s a note in this file from one of the government shrinks, a kind of protest letter. Want me to read it to you?”

I’d never heard any of this before. I’d always wondered why they’d selected me and how they’d selected me. I would have loved to come right out and ask to read through everything he’d found, but I couldn’t risk that. Instead, I told him, “I’ll listen to a little more, but it’s getting old.”

“Okay, how about I read just a couple of key sentences? The shrink wrote, ‘I feel I should point out that the candidate template you describe is a man without conscience, or at least one who has the ability to repress emotions that many believe are key to a healthy, well-adjusted human being. It’s my feeling that such individuals, depending on their training, could become extremely dangerous.’ ”

Harrington said, “See there? That’s the kind of man they wanted.” He told me that, in the same letter, the psychiatrist used the phrase ‘cold-blooded analysts’ to describe an ideal candidate, which caused the diplomat to chuckle. “Somehow, that doesn’t sound like the man who wrestled around with his conscience before taking my daughter to bed. Maybe you’ve matured, Commander Ford. Or softened up a little.”

He was enjoying this too much. I wondered why. As for me, I was tired of the implicit drama that he seemed to be prolonging. I was tired of waiting, tired of the low-grade anxiety I felt while he continued to avoid the obvious: Had he or had he not found my name in those files?

It was time to put an end to it. I said, “Why are telling me this? Are you suggesting that I was somehow a part of some kind of illegal army? Or whatever the hell you would call something like that?”

He laughed. “Haven’t you been listening? Of course I am! Are you denying it?”

“You found my name in one of those files? Because, if you did find my name, there must be-”

“Relax, Ford. That’s what you’ve been worried about the whole time. I’m sorry. I was being cruel. The obvious question: Are you mentioned by name? I think you’ll be relieved. Nope, you are not mentioned. There are no names in the file. The administrators did a superb job of protecting their people. Your code number’s in there and your code name. Lots of other bits of telltale information that helped me pick you out. But no, the name Marion W. Ford is not included, which is why I’ve never had to pass the files along to my superiors. If we don’t know who you and your teammates are, there’s no one to prosecute. And you could be prosecuted-there’s no statue of limitations on murder, as I’m sure you know.”

I felt a sense of relief so great that, when I noticed one of the Sanibel guides, Alex Payne, waving at me through the Temptation’s window, I grinned mightily and waved back. I said to Harrington, “Names or no names, I don’t know why you’re bothering me with all this cloak-and-dagger business. Aren’t we supposed to be discussing Lindsey?”