TWENTY-FOUR

Antimony, Utah

 

 

 

 

 

“ME? I PREFER JACK DANIELS,” Berkshire said, contemplating the steam rising from his mug of coffee laced with a generous dose of Jim Beam.

Mathias shrugged. “Best I could do on short notice.”

“You still off the hooch?”

“One thousand four hundred eighty-three days and counting.”

Raising his mug in salute, Berkshire said, “Congrats, but abstinence is overrated.”

In the horse barn, the temperature had dropped to below fifty degrees. Berkshire’s words projected from his lips with a puff of steam. Average in stature and appearance, to Mathias, Berkshire was the most physically unremarkable and nondescript human specimen he knew. Berkshire could be anything from a professor to a priest, an insurance underwriter to a serial rapist. The man defied categorization. But despite his lofty title, Berkshire was, at heart, a Spook, both physically and intellectually well-suited to The Game.

Finishing first in his class at Stanford with a four-point-oh GPA, Berkshire had been recruited to the CIA immediately upon graduating. Arriving in Washington, he’d been set to the task of forecasting future terrorist activity—both domestic and foreign—using proprietary quantitative, predictive mathematical analysis developed by himself.

With the election of Bill Clinton, Berkshire’s analytic skill-set fell from favor, the administration preferring a more qualitative approach to intelligence gathering based on opinion, experience in the field, conjecture, and personal impressions. Suddenly, diary accounts, open-ended questionnaires, unstructured interviews, and observations—all skewed by personal bias—superseded objective qualitative analytical analysis.

Berkshire burned with the knowledge that using his own methods the CIA might have predicted, and possibly prevented, the events of 9-11, a catastrophe he put squarely on the shoulders of the Clinton Administration.

After the election of George W. Bush and the passage of the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act in two thousand four, Berkshire was elevated to his current position as Assistant Deputy Director, Counter Terrorism Center, at the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.

Working steadfastly for two years to purge the Clinton toadies from his department, Berkshire’s next major initiative was to recruit and to train an influential and elite shadow-force of non-governmental operatives tasked to deliver objective qualitative intelligence from the field—by any means necessary. This represented a sea-change shift away from the process favored by the political apparatchiks that had worked for Clinton and his holdover Director of Central Intelligence, George Tenet.

Berkshire despised Tenet, believed his type of flawed intelligence-gathering responsible for the ill-advised rush to war in Iraq, costing America thousands of lives and hundreds of billions of dollars.

After Tenet finally stepped down, Brookbank received both the funding and mandate conceived and envisioned by Berkshire. Through Brookbank, Mathias became one of his first recruits.

“Why are you here, Berk?” Mathias now asked his former handler.

“To renew old acquaintances.” Berkshire drained his mug, setting it down on a haystack.

“You’re lucky Tara didn’t shoot you down.”

Berkshire chuckled. “I imagine she wanted to.” Mathias nodded, serious. “But not you.” It was not a question.

Mathias worried the scar over his eyebrow. “I knew what I was getting into when I signed on.”

Berkshire shifted. “No hard feelings?”

Narrowing his eyes, Mathias said, “No hard feelings.”

“A true professional,” Berkshire said, his tone flat.

Turning his back on Berkshire, Mathias wandered over to a stall. He reached into a bushel-barrel of apples, the skins scarred and bruised. He offered the apple to a horse with a jet-black hide, fetlocks with three white socks, and a white star on the forehead.

“There’s a boy,” Mathias said gently, extending his hand. The horse whinnied, rolled back its lips to accept the treat.

“Nice animal,” Berkshire said.

“Tennessee Walking Horse,” Mathias said. “Sitting a good Walker is like being in a rocking chair; won’t wear-out your bottom on long rides. Tough, with lots of stamina. Hard hooves that hold up well to challenging trails, which around these parts are aplenty. But docile, easy to train. Ranch owners around here favor ‘em for recreational riding.”

“You breed, sell, train?”

“All of the above,” Mathias said.

Berkshire counted stalls; six in total. After a rough calculation, he said, “You’re not making much money.”

“Money isn’t why I’m here. Question is: why are you?”

Reaching out, Berkshire stroked the animal’s hide. Unable to distinguish in the dim light, he said, “Female or male?”

“Gelding,” Mathias replied.

“Poor boy,” said Berkshire. “A man with no balls.”

Eyeing Berkshire speculatively, Mathias said, “What, exactly, is it you’re trying to say, Berk?”

Thumping the animal’s flank, Berkshire retreated. He said, “What do you know about the American eagle?”

Mathias shrugged, indifferent.

Berkshire continued. “Eagles produce one to three eggs per year, two being typical. Often, the oldest chick has the advantage of size over the youngest. Often, the oldest chick will attack and kill the younger. Sometimes, the mother will simply toss the weaker chick from the nest allowing the stronger to thrive. A perfect illustration of survival of the fittest.”

Mathias remained silent. Berkshire said, “You know Kyprios passed away five years ago. What you don’t know is Freeman took his own life last month. What I’m trying to say, Mathias, is of the eight men who entered The Registan that day only you have survived.”