CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Five Days Later

Jean-Luc Le Croix sat on the veranda of his plantation home in Hué perusing the two day old copy of The New York Times that his houseman had fetched him from the airport newspaper shop.

The front page headline told Sheep Dog what he needed to know:

MANHUNT OVER
Most Wanted Fugitive Identified in Fiery Crash

The article told of “a massive firefight between federal officers and the fleeing fugitive traitor, U.S. Navy Captain, Hunter Caulfield. Caulfield was finally stopped by a hail of machine gun bullets outside the nation’s capital which had turned his escape car into a roaring inferno. The bullet ridden charred corpse was identified by dental records and DNA obtained from some blood that had escaped incineration by seeping through the destroyed floor boards onto the automobile’s frame. The D.C. Medical Examiner who performed the autopsy listed the cause of death as gun-shot wounds to the chest and head, and expressed his gratitude to federal officials for providing finger print and DNA data to confirm the identity. The long saga of one of the nation’s—even the world’s—most celebrated manhunts came to an end during the night of September 23^rd. No officers were injured or killed, which—as one senior officer put it—was ‘nothing short of a miracle’. Except for the federal officers involved, there were no witnesses. One senior federal officerspeaking on condition of anonymitydescribed the final encounter as ‘spectacular as the ends for Bonnie and Clyde, and John Dillinger put together’, but would not elaborate on details of how the fugitive was found.”

The article gave a lengthy and detailed account of the extensive worldwide manhunt and of the massive efforts on the part of federal, state, and local U.S. law enforcement and by their counterparts throughout the world. The director of the FBI was quoted as saying that his bureau “could not have done it without the tremendous level of cooperation that the FBI—as lead law enforcement agency—received.”

President Storebridge extended his hearty congratulations to the members of the law-enforcement community and to the regular citizens who had been so beneficial to the FBI’s efforts. The world is “a safer place today”, the president said.

Muslim leaders from five countries joined in praising the work of the Western police agencies, an almost unprecedented communication for nations usually considered hostile to most military and law enforcement activities in the West. The Times took special note of the fact that Iran joined its neighbors in extending its congratulations to the FBI and that this was—perhaps—one more evidence of the welcome thaw between the U.S. and Iran.

Sheep Dog had arrived in Viet Nam the previous afternoon, having traveled from Paris under the name of Asian art importer, Douglas Conroy Weaver from Atlantic City, New Jersey, whose set of identification papers he destroyed before leaving the Tan Son Nhat Airport. As he now sat on his own veranda, he mentally reviewed the instructions he had given Oliver. By now—he assumed—Oliver would have found Ed’s body and Sheep Dog’s blood and had been able to use his covert-ops resources to obtain a cadaver from somewhere, fake a firefight for the media, and to burn the corpse beyond recognition. Knowing the careful and incorruptible work ethic of the D.C. coroner, Sheep Dog’s blood would have had to have been placed very carefully. Sheep Dog had been certain that Oliver would find a way once he had sufficient incentive to apply his sharp mind to the task.

He finished his martini and went inside to send an e-mail message. He let Steffan Johannson know that he would meet him in Quesnel in a year. That trip would provide full closure to the Sheep Dog saga. He arranged a wire transfer of funds to support Heather Prentiss for the year she would have to remain in Canada.

One Year Later
Quesnel, British Columbia

Candy sent Tran out to fetch Heather Prentiss when Hunter Caulfield landed in the back pasture of the ranch. Steffan, Xe, Tran, Heather, the Dakelh Indian ranch hands, and nine children watched the final approach. Heather was as excited as she had been for her fifth Christmas morning. Steffan and Candy had promised her for a month that she would be released the day the man the ranch workers called Hi Poindexter came back. Most of the hands knew next to nothing about the man on the helicopter, except that he had been there once before—a year or so ago—and that; on his account, they kept the location of the ranch a complete secret from the American girl, Heather.

Hunter was dressed in old ranch clothing and had a month old beard which aged him ten years. He wore opaque sun glasses and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat pulled low over his forehead. He had dyed his hair black and wore it long like the Dakelhs. His skin was either genuinely tan or he had a convincing make-up job. He greeted the Johannson’s affectionately and took a moment to greet every ranch worker enthusiastically. The pilot—one of the cousins named Ben—had briefed Hunter on their names. His long history as a spy had given him a remarkable memory for names, and he impressed and delighted the ranch inhabitants with his easy facility with everyone.

After supper, Hunter and Steffan talked for an hour. Over Steffan’s protests, Hunter forced him to take a $100,000 Canadian National Bank bearer’s bond for the year’s worth of service.

“Who knows, Steffan,” Hunter said, “I might have need of your services again one day.”

“Let’s hope we meet again in less stressful circumstances,” Steffan said.

“I’ll drink to that.”

The men shared a tall glass of Malviore Ice Wine that Hunter had brought from New York for the occasion. He explained the odd origin of the wine and let Steffan judge for himself the quality. The ice wine is harvested from frozen Reisling grapes picked at 14° F. along for the Niagara Peninsula. Steffan approved, so much so that he had another full glass.

In the morning Candy persuaded Heather to don the opaque hood for the trip back home. Hunter avoided talking to the girl who sat in the back seat of the Bell Longranger all the way to Creston, B.C. near the international border where they landed in a small private airport. Hunter then allowed her to remove her hood. She looked about anxiously and was still uncertain as to whether she was in Canada or Siberia. There were no telltale landmarks to convince her of either choice. The short drive from Creston to the Canadian/US Border allowed her for the first time to know that she was in Canada. She remained uncertain about whether or not she had spent the entire past year in the huge country to the north of her own home country.

For the first time, Hunter spoke to Heather. He did so in a broad Canadian accent with ‘ehs’, and ‘oots’ and ‘down souths’ and a bit of overacting.

“Heather,” he said. “You are almost home. You have been on vacation, and you are returning to school. We’ll drive to Sand Point, and from then on you are safe and on your own. You can contact the police, and you can speak to the news media if you want. I suggest—however—that you talk to your parents before you do either. They may convince you to keep your recent year’s experience to yourself. I am Hyrum Edgar Poindexter. I suggest you remember me and forget other names you know about.”

Heather was still cowed by the forceful man who was apparently behind her kidnapping and confused about the reason for it all. She nodded her agreement.

The two drove the rent-a-car through the Rykerts-Porthill border crossing station without incident. Hunter drove south on Idaho Highway #1 to U.S. #95 and into Bonners Ferry—the gateway to north Idaho—where they had a quick hamburger lunch at McDonalds. Hunter let her off in front of the post office in Sand Point, fifty miles south of the border, gave her $10,000 dollars in cash, and told her to “have a nice life”.

He drove away out of her life as enigmatically as he had entered it a year ago. She hurried to a Verizon store and purchased a throw-away cell phone and called home.

“Hello.”

“Mom, it’s me…it’s me, Heather.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I was afraid this day would never come. Are you all right? Did they hurt you? Are they still guarding you? Did they tell you why they kidnapped you? Oh, baby, are you okay?”

“One thing at a time, Mom. And yes, I’m perfectly okay. I’ve been a ranch hand, and I am in the best shape I have ever been in. I want to get back to school, but I’ve changed. I don’t think I’ll ever be the bratty selfish Yalie I was ever again. The man who dropped me off here told me I probably shouldn’t talk to the cops or to the news media until I talked to you guys. Is that what I should do?”

“Your dad is absolute about that. I don’t quite understand all the reasons why, but we should really go by what he says. This is one time for sure that we need to trust that he knows best.”

“I’ll keep quiet. But sometime I’m going to need some explanations. I’ve earned that privilege.”

“You have. Right now what’s important is where are you?”

“Some little burg called Sand Point, Idaho. It’s right by the Canadian border. How do I get home?”

“Your dad will have a plane in the air within the hour. I think he can get to you before midnight. Check into a motel and call me again when you’re settled. Oh, I didn’t think, do you have any money?”

“Yeah, Mom, it was weird. The guy gave me ten thousand bucks. I could party hearty tonight.”

“Get some food and rest. Dad’ll be there before you know it. I will be able to start life all over again when we get you home. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for the entire past year.”

Heather found out from her father enough to convince her to let the past year’s experience become a lost part of history.

“The people who took you are nobody to mess with. They do keep their bargains, and they have a very long reach. I want you to stay safe and live a happy life. You are more likely to be able to do that if you will keep this a secret.”

The Same Day
Central Intelligence Building, Langley, Virginia
Office of the Director

DCIA Lang arranged for a black star to be placed in the official history of the Central Intelligence Agency. No one would ever know the name of Edgar Liam Salinger, but his star would at least be part of the noble heritage of agency heroism.

He spoke briefly to his ADCIA, “I’ll handle the transfer of evidence to Afshin Baktiari myself. They won’t accept anyone’s word that the guy they call “The Shadow” is really dead. The evidence looks good, don’t you think?”

Lang had reference to his counterpart, the head of The Ministry of Intelligence and Security of Iran—the VEVAK.

“I saw to it myself. We thought of everything. We won’t run into any difficulties.”

“Good work, Oliver, this had to be hard for you. You have always been a Company man to your core. I’m going to retire after this year, and I’ll do my best to put you in my chair when I do.”

“Thanks, Director. It’s always been the Company and the country above everything else for me. It has been an honor to serve.”

The moment was as close to a “warm-fuzzy” as happens in the Central Intelligence Agency.