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Bloodsports
Bloodsports
Bloodsports
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Bloodsports

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Set in the mid 1980's "good times" era of President Ronald Reagan, the story revolves around a secret (even from the US State Department), completely illegal off the books mission to try and prevent a dangerous coup within the declining Soviet Union, a coup that could be a disaster for East/West relations, re ignite the Cold War, or worse. Based on information received from a long dormant source inside the Soviet Union, information not believed by US officials, the "team", a former CIA star now discredited, his past now retired chief operative, and a drug taking washed out young third tier hockey player who once was a promising agent himself, undertake a highly unorthodox and dangerous operation. At the same time the young hockey player and the chief operative's teenage daughter are thrown together, much to the dismay of the father, who sees way too much of himself in the washed out hockey player, and doesn't like it. Body counts mount, blood flows-- espionage and hockey are, in fact--- blood sports.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateFeb 1, 2017
ISBN9781483592039
Bloodsports

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    Bloodsports - Andrew Thoms

    happened.

    PROLOGUE

    March 17th, 2014- A Well Appointed Lake Home’s Living Room

    Island Lake near Duluth, MN

    The spring storm raged out the picture window, making the dock protruding into the lake less than 100 feet away barely visible. He put the newspaper down, having just an article featuring his old friend, the Federation’s likely next Premier and third in command, and the nation’s new found imperialism (only the beginning, he figured, given the idiots running our country). Vladimir’s old KGB buddy. Feeding his ego. Filthy rich. Him and his thieving oligarch buddies and their Third World country with little more than oil, an army and nukes. Playing the tough guy. I could still take him down in 30 seconds. What I wouldn’t give to smell that smell again. Like that day in Prague all those years ago. The good old days. Following the old Nazi blueprint? Naw- and no launched nukes, no eternal winter cold and darkness, except on TV. An opportunistic rotten bastard he has always been, but maybe we could do worse—. Who the hell knows? And if this gets bad enough, I could still put a team together and, and-he got up to find his beloved Jack, a glass and some ice, even though noon was still a ways off. She was off visiting her sister, so what difference did the time make? Maybe a fire in the fireplace would be nice, he thought.

    June 15th, 2005- Wall Street Journal Editorial

    It is now increasingly clear that the liberalism of the Soviet Union’s President was, at least in part, a ploy to lure the current administration into doing business with him in a more favorable way. More and more every day, his true colors as a friend of authoritarianism, in contrast to a respect for democratic ideals, shows itself. He ought to be less trusted, no matter what was perceived as being in his soul. It is even more apparent that one of the unstated but ultimate goals of the President is to restore his country to its former position as an unreliable nuclear and military power.

    August 7th, 1998- Washington Press Club Luncheon

    Speaker- Tom Clancy

    A middle aged man, sporting slightly graying close cropped hair, non-descript and of medium height and build, looking fit for his age, entered the hotel banquet room just as lunch had concluded, the tables had been cleared, and the speaker, bestselling novelist and lay military expert Tom Clancy, was approaching the podium. Wearing granny glasses and the journalist uniform of beige turtleneck, blue blazer and khaki slacks, the man’s press badge identified him as Albert Donaldson, Professor Emeritus of Journalism, Hamline University, St. Paul, Minnesota. He took an empty seat in the back of the room, nodded a greeting to the three men already at the table, and settled back in his chair to take in Mr. Clancy’s remarks.

    The famous novelist, a former insurance salesman, slightly pudgy and wearing his trademark aviator sunglasses, began with some mild criticism of journalists in general, based upon the premise of needing to place national security above breaking a story now and then, and the reluctance of the journalistic profession to exercise such restraint. He emphasized the need to have secrets in government, to take action that does not see the light of day when it is in the best interests of the country. Even in a democracy such as ours, he went on, there is a time and a place for activities that the public does not, and should not, need to know about. The elected officials in our government must be allowed the discretion to operate covertly through various arms of their government, the NSA, CIA, military intelligence, etc. when absolutely essential to our national security. This must be accepted as a matter of trust. Sometimes these activities are illegal and not successful- that doesn’t mean they should be stopped. The bad guys are doing it- we need to stay ahead of the curve. And just a word to you conspiracy theorists out there who watch the X-Files and see government agents, both good and bad, behind every door plotting the saving or demise of the world as we know it, with wiretaps in place, satellites orbiting, and covert operatives ready to strike. To have a successful covert government op/ conspiracy, you need numerous highly intelligent and egotistical individuals to do something really cool together and then never tell anyone about it. This is the grist of many works of fiction, but does it really square with human nature? I think not, which I believe explains the lack of successful conspiracies in the real world. You journalists are not missing them, there just aren’t any.

    Albert Donaldson faked a smile, feeling sad and alone as the memories flooded back. For show he made eye contact with his tablemates, and joined in the mild laughter and applause. In general, Mr. Clancy, you are correct, he thought to himself, but there have been times—

    CHAPTER 1

    August 15, 1984- A Cheap Motel Room In Duluth, Minnesota

    The young man awoke with a start, as though lightly touched on the shoulder unexpectedly while in the throes of a bad dream. He knew he was in fact having a nightmare, but recalled nothing. Instinctively his right hand slid under the pillow where normally the hard steel of his Beretta comforted him. Today there was no gun. It was light in the room- in his stupor he’d undoubtedly left the drapes open.

    He realized something was very weird here—having no clue where he was, or how he’d gotten there. His twin friends since boyhood, guilt and shame, rose from the ashes of his fried subconscious to greet him. Sitting up, the throbbing started in the back of his head for the umpteenth time, today much worse than usual. The light bothered him so he closed his eyes, which precipitated the familiar but unwanted spinning sensation, slow at first and building to a crescendo that he couldn’t stop. He flashed back to a teacup ride he’d once been on many years ago, at the St. Louis County Fair in Hibbing Minnesota. He’d wanted the ride to stop, he wanted to get off, but–

    Leaping from the bed, cold and naked, his breath taken away by a stabbing pain in his ribcage area, the young man stumbled around doubled over and saw a sink in the corner of the room which he made it to barely in time to empty his guts. A minute or two of dry heaves followed, then a dozen or so spits to rid his mouth of the remnants. Each wretch produced the sensation of someone twisting a knife in the side. The stench of the fresh vomit that hadn’t gone down the drain caused him to gag a few more times. He turned on the faucet and rinsed the rest down the sink. Another night not to remember.

    Bits and pieces. Like the puke he’d just washed down the drain. The uneventful flight from Toronto to Minneapolis, then on a small regional shuttle to Duluth. Sharing a cab to the motel with a decent looking 30ish woman in a business suit. They’d struck up a conversation- divorced, in town for a meeting the next day. A dinner date was made. Recalled thinking how his luck had been the last 3 weeks- now a near invitation to get laid his first night in town. Trish- Trish the dish. A quick dinner, then ending up in a bar. Though he recalled little else from the evening before, for some reason he remembered the bar’s name- The Paul Bunyan. A couple more drinks, a game or two of pool- sitting in the far back booth next to the back stairs-that was it- nada, no more recall. What the fuck do they put in their booze here?

    Putting on the threadbare, hotel- provided robe he located on a hanger in the closet, he stumbled to the bed and collapsed on it. Wow! That was fucking fun. The bruise on his side was becoming more visible by the second. Ah, what the hell? He thought. I’ll live. The job begins today. Gotta let it out once in a while. Once the mission starts, I’m always good to go- totally under control. I wonder if ole Trish had the pleasure- naw, I’d remember, no matter how bad it was, I’d remember. Just got a little too loaded, probably tripped, fell, maybe down those stairs, and—

    The ringing of his room phone sounded like a siren right next to his ear. He reached for his phantom gun to shoot the phone dead, but reluctantly picked up the receiver instead. Had to be a goddamned wrong fucking number; he didn’t know anyone who knew he was here.

    You’ve got the wrong fucking number, whoever the hell you are. Just as he was about to slam the phone receiver down on its cradle, there was a voice- monotone, middle aged, male, calm, cold, ominous. "Mr. Bouchee. Don’t hang up just yet. Welcome back to Minnesota. You’ve just been given your first exam of the semester, and you failed. Miserably, I might add. Your ribs should be bruised—not broken, although they certainly could have been without a problem considering your lack of professionalism. Maybe they should have been, to help you remember why you are here, but I need you physically sound, so you were lucky. You have been retained, at a substantial price, to do a critically important job. Would you like the Toronto police to know your exact whereabouts? Or Mr. Hartley and his friends? He has contacts in Minnesota, you know. I think not. Be aware that you are being watched, evaluated. We know your situation. You are a young man of some resourcefulness, but the people you crossed, well, there are many of them and only one of you. If they knew your whereabouts the police would be the least of your problems.

    But I didn’t cross them. Someone set me up.

    Yes, yes, of course. As if that matters. Pull yourself together and be in my office at the University Athletic Complex at 11:00AM. Sharp." The line went dead.

    Bouchee dropped the receiver and flopped back on the bed, grasping his aching side. A set up. Big as life and I fell for it. Supposed to be a professional. A professional lush. But only on off hours. Once the job starts, under control. This was a good lesson. Don’t let the guard down. You know better. Trust yourself. Play the part, do the job, take the money. But now I’ve got to get ready.

    Spotting his carryon backpack tossed in a corner, the relief he felt momentarily made him forget his hangover and aching side. He rummaged through the bag, hands shaking , found his Beretta and, thankfully, the shaving kit- the large aspirin bottle at the bottom appeared undisturbed. Inside, just as he’d packed it- two fat doobies and four dozen or so small white pills.

    Definitely a three cross morning, he mused. He dry swallowed all three, found some motel matches on the nightstand, and lit a joint. Inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for as long as he could, he wished for a cold brewsky. Naw, he had a meeting. Beer breath in the morning wouldn’t do. Not for the money this job would bring, and how serious these people obviously were. Too bad there was no vodka. And it wasn’t in his interests to have either the Toronto police or Hartley and his thugs know his whereabouts. Plus he needed the money this job would bring. He grabbed the remote control from the lamp stand, pressed the power button. The local news mesmerized him while he smoked and waited. It wasn’t long before pleasurable meth induced rushes pulsated through his body, slowly numbing the effects of the alcohol and whatever else he’d poisoned himself with, or be poisoned with, the evening before. The powerful Garberville grown weed mellowed out the amphetamine stampede just enough. There definitely was a cure for a hangover. And bruised ribs. The fog of the evening before was lifting. The young blonde babe/ TV anchor was smiling seductively at him. Arousal was immediate. Reaching under his robe, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Trish and what she’d missed out on.

    CHAPTER 2

    April 1 1984- West St Paul

    Minnesota

    When the ringing first started, Albert Donaldson rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. His instincts, which had saved his life more times than he could count, screamed Don’t Answer, Don’t Answer. And the 5 double Chivas Regals from the evening before didn’t help his mood. After seven rings he assumed it was his ex playing an April Fool’s joke on him. After 12 he grabbed the receiver and shouted, Leave me the fuck alone- you have the wrong number, for chrisssake. Before he could hang up- the voice, the voice from many past adventures, Albert, don’t hang up. Albert, are you still there?

    Shit. On April 1, of all days! He tried mightily to force himself to hang up, but he’d just call back. Albert. It’s Robert. As you are well aware, hanging up is a waste of our time. I’ll send a team if I have to.

    Donaldson didn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally he said, "I suppose this isn’t a social call or an April Fool’s joke.

    "I do neither. And you know I only call when I, I mean our great nation, has a need for your unique talents. Or I need a binge partner. This is clearly the former.

    I was actually hoping it was my ex playing a joke. Imagine where that puts my feelings about hearing your voice, Robert.

    Understandable- but in this instance unwarranted. I only bring the opportunity to earn substantial money with minimal risks. I happen to know you have a sabbatical coming up at Hamline. There is a temporary job opening for which you are eminently qualified, right in your home state. A one semester assistant athletic director position to act as an assistant coach/ press liaison and academic advisor for a Division 1 Hockey program while the regular staff member is on a personal leave of absence. Your salary, subsidized of course by your grateful government, $100000. Have I piqued your interest?

    If I heard you right, and remember I am very hung over, for that kind of money there is at least a 50-50 chance I’ll either be killed or end up in Stillwater, or more likely a federal penitentiary, for 20 years. Did you say a 1 and five zeros?

    You always had a knack for numbers, even though most of those numbers were associated with body counts in one if our prior lives. And you will be doing nothing dangerous or illegal. Not to mention Stillwater is a lovely little town, I here.

    And the bear will say Christmas mass at the Vatican and the Pope will shit in the Minnesota north woods. I’m out of the body count business, period. I have a teenage daughter that still needs a father.

    She’ll have one. A father that can dote on her to the tune of $100000. For three months work while you are still being paid by your university. You’ll be running a simple op. The agent you will be working with is a pro who will be taking all the risks, minimal as they will be. Not to say this isn’t important, far from it. It is vital to our national security. Hence the price tag and the need to employ someone of your experience. Go take a shower, make some coffee, have a Bloody Mary or three, and call me back here on my secure line in 30 minutes. You recall the number, I presume. I’ll give you the 10000 foot overview at that time." Templeton abruptly hung up before Donaldson could formulate a reply.

    Washington D.C.- April 1, 1984

    Robert Templeton, Advisor, Soviet Relations in the office National Security, hung up his secure phone after completing his call with Albert Donaldson. He leaned back in his personally owned expensive swivel chair that was the most valuable thing in his rather modest office, with great satisfaction, knowing that the best part of all of this was that he’d only had to play the money card, leaving loyalty and gratitude as hole cards to be played later if necessary. Donaldson’s file was laying closed on his desk- having it brought to him had been a mere formality, a ploy to make his recruitment seem as routine as possible to prying eyes within his department in case he had to bring Albert into the office. They’d experienced a good portion of the file together, going way back to the Kennedy administration and the beginnings of that noble but ill- conceived and ill-fated excursion into Southeast Asia. Maybe it hadn’t even been noble, but that was for the historians to decide. Both he and Albert had always doubted the whole domino theory and the support of the corrupt and unpopular South Vietnamese government. They had merely been, and still were, soldiers. And Albert had been one of the best ever, a Hall of Famer. How ironic he’d ended up a journalist, better yet a professor of journalism, journalist being a stereotypical spook cover. Albert hadn’t been a spy in the ordinary sense, working under embassy cover, running agents, doing dead drops. He’d mainly been a covert operative on the paramilitary side, running solo missions without diplomatic cover, training insurgents, eliminating enemies of our country when necessary, leading elite soldiers on various missions. A soldier’s soldier. For nearly twenty years one of the CIA’s best. Now retired, he still made himself available when his country, and a big payday, called.

    Templeton recalled their first meeting as if it had happened yesterday. Thailand- 1962. Albert the bright but bored college dropout who had enlisted in the Marines and found what he had been looking for- fresh from Green Beret training where he had excelled, now assigned to an advisory group sent to the region to train locals in the art of defending their countries from Ho Chi Min and the North Vietnamese communist invaders. And me, the green, idealistic, recently promoted 26 year old Bangkok CIA station chief on his first overseas assignment. My main job consisted of coordinating the activities of Air America, the thinly disguised private mechanism for transporting advisors from Thailand into Laos and Vietnam to train the locals. Reality was the advisors were highly trained soldiers mainly from the US, a few from other interested nations along with a core of mercenaries, who fought side by side with the locals, training them in the fine arts of infiltration, murder, kidnapping, torture, assassination and all the rest of the necessary skills for carrying out a war against a guerilla army made up of mostly its own citizens. Not quite what my professors told me it would be like during my graduate studies in Southeast Asian affairs at Yale—but being a French speaker with passable Thai communication skills, I was a good fit on the frontline against the forces of darkness and didn’t have to do the dirty work personally.

    Albert, on the other hand, was 22, trained to kill when ordered, and mentally prepared to put that training to use. He thought from the beginning that the entire Vietnam effort was bogus, a position I didn’t necessarily disagree with philosophically, but nonetheless he quickly became the best field operative I had. Some even compared him to the legendary Tony Po. Albert excelled in all areas of covert paramilitary activity, but was especially good at eliminating high ranking Viet Cong leaders. His innate lack of respect for traitors, even traitors who were probably correct in their political leanings, made him perfect for that particularly dangerous and important job. Albert did his job without much display of outward emotion. He followed orders. His kills were always clean- without fanfare but extremely effective. He preferred to kill from a distance rather than up close, but close quarters didn’t really seem to bother him all that much. At least he didn’t show the ill effects outwardly. He double checked all intel himself in an attempt to not wrongly kill an innocent victim of someone’s sloppy work, but when the job was done, he moved on, right or wrong, never speaking negatively about the Vietnamese, never using such terms as gook. Maybe his most important trait for his line of work was that he was average. Average height, build, appearance. Not easily noticed, able to blend in. Adaptable. A chameleon.

    Albert’s parents, both career military, had been killed in a motorcycle accident when Albert was 14. An only child without a large extended family, raised by an aunt and uncle who said good riddance and sent him off to college on his parent’s life insurance money at age 18, he had a perfect family background to participate in covert ops. Upon my return to the US in 1964, I immediately recruited him for the CIA, in retrospect one of my best decisions and career moves, given Albert’s subsequent long and distinguished service to his country.

    Didn’t see a whole lot of him after he joined the Company in 1965, as our careers took very different paths, but I did make it a rule to get together with him at least once a year, and I did follow his progress, as he was my prized recruit. By 1972 he had risen to be the Company’s top troubleshooter and political assassin. He’d married in 1966, had a daughter in 1967, and divorced in 1970. Not easy to sustain a relationship in Albert’s profession. Despite the divorce, he’d never stopped loving his ex, worshipped his daughter, and worked hard to maintain a good relationship with both in spite of his job.

    Our get- togethers were mainly bull sessions about the glory days in Southeast Asia, drunken binges fueled by Chivas and Jack Daniels that often lasted several days. We both needed the cleansing, I suppose, and we had been through enough that there was a total trust and openness, something nearly impossible to find in their line of work. The meetings probably kept us sane, if in fact we are.

    Albert had attended college off and on over the years and finally received his Master’s in journalism in 1976. He had grown tired of the stress, and in 1979 decided to pull the plug to spend more time with his daughter and attempt to lead a normal life, first as a freelance journalist, and shortly thereafter as an assistant professor of journalism at Hamline University in St. Paul. Much to my everlasting joy, he grew bored with this in a couple of years. Knowing the flexibility and time off his teaching job provided, I approached him on behalf of the Company to work on a part time contract basis. For considerable sums of money. He was, of course, assigned to me.

    One of the conditions of his renewed part time employment was a refusal to be personally involved in any sort of violent mission. He would train others to carry them out, but drew the line at actual participation. This was fine, as his knowledge and training skills were invaluable.

    Templeton got up from his chair, removed his sport coat, and did twenty fingertip pushups and one hundred crunches in the middle of his office. Then he sat back down to review Donaldson’s and his young recruit’s role in the still being developed op summary, going over it in his mind as he read it again. For the hundredth time he noted the very atypical circumstances of his young hockey player’s childhood. Saddened, he shook his head inadvertently. The unusual psychological profile was a two edged sword, potentially a positive and a negative. He hoped it would not come back to bite the mission, but rationalized that it was the best he could do given the timeframes. Then he turned his thoughts back to Donaldson’s role. Temporary job at the University of Minnesota- Duluth with the hockey program to run an agent on a one time mission to pick up and deliver documents. Simple sounding, so why Donaldson, why the need for another experienced operative with very special skills, why the $150000 price tag for only the agents? No reason- except that the outcome of the mission would in all likelihood have a profound and lasting effect on the balance of power in the world, to the point that failure was simply not an option. And except that the mission was completely black, run from his desk without the knowledge of even his own superiors, a career buster that could even result in prison- but a mission more than important enough to justify those risks. Mission name: Operation Black Ice.

    Templeton leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The long term future of US-Soviet relations and profoundly influencing the outcome of the Cold War were certainly worth these extraordinary measures. No one in the current administration had the balls or the foresight to move on this once in a millennium opportunity. Not to mention, he mused, me getting out of this goddamned cubicle to the position of importance I deserve.

    CHAPTER 3

    Toronto, Ontario- May 28th, 1984

    The slap shot had been partially blocked by one of the defensemen just inside the blue line, causing the puck to change direction and skip crazily along the ice on its side, right on goal. His instincts were to drop to his knees and smother it, or to use his stick to redirect it, but it would be quicker, flashier and more fun to glove it and slide it to his teammate to turn it back up ice, creating a counter rush rather than a stoppage of play in their end. Besides, he was too stoned to really care. So he reached down rather carelessly, managing only to catch the puck with the side of his heavily padded, clumsy goalie glove, which in turn deflected it just enough to cause it to dribble through the five hole, his legs, across the goal line, and into the net. The red light flashed and the horn blared. Boos cascaded from the stands as he rather nonchalantly swept the rubber disc out of the goal. Insurance goal with 8 minutes to go in the third period.

    The keeper sat in front of his locker a few minutes later, removing his pads for the last time that season, maybe the last time ever. The loss had knocked his team out of the Toronto Junior B league playoffs in the first round when the team had been a preseason pick to finish in the top three. He felt the angry stares of his teammates, none of whom had the courage to say or do anything. Coaches were circulating around the locker room, consoling the team privately. None stopped near his locker.

    Without a word to anyone, he dressed without showering and exited into the damp, cold Toronto spring night. At 27 years old, his hockey days were numbered, if not over completely. Next hockey stop would be US flunky lower level professional leagues where fighting was the skill most cherished. Not that he really cared one way or the other. He had other bigger fish to fry, and hockey was just a cover that could be replaced easily enough.

    Not far from the arena, still a block or two from his apartment, he sensed the presence of someone following him. Not a professional or a cop, judging from the clumsy nature of the tail. At the end of the block he turned right and ducked into a storefront doorway, pulling a small knife out of his leather jacket pocket. A rather tough looking young man he didn’t recognize arrived shortly thereafter at the corner and looked down the block, hesitating. He finally made the wrong decision- to proceed. When he passed the doorway the keeper darted out, grabbing the man in a chokehold and jabbing the knife point against his back.

    Don’t even think of struggling, he whispered. Just relax, tell me why you’re following me, and you may survive this."

    The young man was gasping and the keeper released the hold enough so he could breathe and talk.

    I’m just a messenger, Bouchee. Two of Hartley’s boys were arrested today in Detroit. Word on the street is you fingered them, to even the score for the last deal that went south. He wants to see you, hear your side. He’s coming over from Motown tomorrow, wants to meet.

    The keeper felt the gun under the man’s jacket, reached in and removed it. Nice piece. Loaded and everything. Part of the message? He released the man and shoved him back. "I could return the message by shooting you with your own gun, but that would be a waste of a good bullet. You tell Hartley I have no goddamned idea what he’s talking about, I didn’t rat anyone out, and that I think this is a frame designed to split our organizations. And tell him I better have my delivery on Saturday or there will be hell to pay. Got it?

    I hear you. But you’re crazy, man. Hartley is big time, with a lot bigger organization than you have. He’s got plenty of muscle, and he’ll track you down. You should meet with him.

    Sounds like he’s already found me guilty, so fuck him. You tell him that. And tell him to send a man next time to do his dirty work. Or come himself. Now get the hell out of Toronto." Billy shoved him hard.

    The man staggered, then broke into a clumsy jog down the street as fast as he could. The keeper, tempted to fire a couple of shots at the fleeing man’s feet just for grins, instead stashed the gun and knife in his jacket and headed for his apartment. Not good, he thought, not good at all. Somebody wants me gone, and this town isn’t big enough to stay clear of Hartley and his gang for long. Next time they’ll send a small army.

    The physically mature, well-built 11 year old defenseman, normally a goaltender, eager to impress the coach at the new position at practice, went for a steal and allowed the clever little forward to deke him. To stop the breakaway he swung his stick and viciously slashed the player across his skates as he went around him, sending the boy, his teammate and one of the star players, hard to the ice, screaming in pain. The coach skated out, made sure the young man was OK, and glared menacingly at the guilty player.

    Jesus Christ, Bouchee. Go put the pads back on and get in the net before you kill someone.

    Young Bouchee lowered his head and skated toward the bench to get the goalie gear on. When passing the teammate he’d just injured, their eyes met. The player on the ice was fearful- Bouchee smirked. Hockey sure was fun, he thought.

    May 29th, 1984- Toronto, Ontario

    Jennifer McDermott, assistant professor of Russian language at Toronto University, had not been the least bit happy to see Billy Bouchee and his backpack through her peephole that morning, but she’d let him in anyway.

    Sorry Jen, he mumbled as she opened the door. Are you alone? I know I’m probably the last person in the world you want to see right now, but I’m in trouble- deep shit. Somebody is trying to frame me, get me killed. I need a place to crash for just a few days, until I figure things out. OK? Just a few days? I’ll stay out of the way.

    Jennifer looked askance at him and shook her head. Still, how could she say no? He was still the most beautiful boy she’d ever laid eyes on, still looking 19 even though now past 25. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her gently on the forehead. Thanks babe. You’re the best, and the hottest professor in history. He kissed her again, more passionately this time on the lips, and she responded, in spite of herself. Moments later he was carrying her to the bedroom.

    Much later she found herself wide awake lying next to him for the umpteenth time, listening to his steady breathing as he slept. She thought back to the first time they’d met, in the fall of 1975. She’d been a 24 year old TA teaching a freshman political science survey class at the University of Toronto. He’d made an appointment during the fourth week of the semester, ostensibly to discuss his progress. Two weeks later she’d slept with him, not finding out until much later that he was only 17, and that he’d been hot for her and planned the entire meeting and seduction.

    He’d been relatively experienced for such a tender age, the hot high school hockey hunk with more than his fair share of back seat adventures. What had amazed her, however, unlike his lack of classroom dedication, was the fact that he was a willing student who totally lacked inhibitions and was, furthermore, a natural, who listened and paid attention to what pleasured her rather than just worrying about pleasing himself. Even more amazing was that he spoke decent Russian and even better French. He also possessed a perfect body, movie star looks, and porn star size and control. Jennifer always felt he was too young and good looking for her; that he would drop her like a dirty shirt when something younger and prettier came along, and she was right. But he always returned. And she always let him back in.

    A year after they’d met he left school after being kicked off the junior hockey team he was on and enlisted in the Canadian Airborne, one of the elite military organizations in North America, in late 1976. But what an incredible year it had been for her. Initially he’d come by whenever he had leave, but over time Jennifer realized he was spreading his wings and taking his skills to a new audience. As expected. What was unusual about the situation was Billy’s total honesty. I lie like hell to the rest of them, he once told her, but I’ll always be straight with you. I owe you so much, and I will always love you in a special way.

    Jennifer was envious of his new loves, but not in the normal sense of being jealous. She envied what they were experiencing that she wasn’t, but in a purely physical sense. She dated many others- older, intellectual, worldly men, mainly from academia. Yet after evenings of expensive dinners, good wine, inspiring conversation at a high intellectual plane, and practiced, literate sex, she’d find herself lying awake, recalling the long, wordless, mind numbing hours, the passionate waves of pleasure she and Billy had experienced together.

    Those times still occurred, as Billy would drop in from time to time, but then he was recruited by the US CIA in the winter of 1978, and was off to places unknown. They saw each other a grand total of 3 times between 1979 and 1983, and she received exactly two letters. Until a little more than a year ago, when he’d materialized in a way nearly identical to now, at her door, cut loose by the CIA and needing a place to crash temporarily.

    He had still looked terrific, but was drinking a lot, using some cocaine and amphetamines, smoking a lot of dope. Not that his lifestyle had any effect on his sexual appetite or prowess. Quite the contrary, his experiences had only improved his technique. Before long he was playing hockey again and building a small but efficient and profitable marijuana distribution network from Detroit to Toronto through Windsor, had his own apartment, and was making the rounds of the Toronto singles scene, pleasuring innumerable women and envisioning himself a major player with an unlimited financial future.

    Until today. Until his latest resurrection at her doorstep. But this was different. The loaded handgun a foot from his head on the night stand screamed the difference, loudly and clearly. Yet he acted no differently from any other time she’d been with him. She should be terrified, she realized, but somehow she’d always felt safe and secure with Billy Bouchee.

    He followed the squadron leader out of the plane, diving into the blackness head first. Fifteen other highly trained members of his unit would be right behind. They were part of the elite Canadian Airborne Regiment, and were parachuting into the desolate Yukon for a 7 day training mission emphasizing survival skills. Simulation of an incursion into a wintery area during global hostilities- Siberia for instance?

    The stinging coldness of the air shocked him as he free- fell for the first 1000 feet. This was his 15th night jump. Lost count of the day ones. Fun stuff. Night jumps were a little weird, but if his unit were ever needed, night entry was a distinct possibility.

    His chute opened right on schedule and with the moonlight he was able to make out sparse trees and the whiteness of the snow. Easy landing. Dark cloudy nights on hard ground were when ankles were sprained and knees injured. They would have 7 days to move 300 miles over the barren snow covered wasteland of the Yukon. Their Norwegian counterpart NATO unit, all strong skiers, had made the trip in the allotted time. The skis attached to his backpack were not second nature to his unit as they were to the Norwegians. But what the Canucks lacked in finesse with the boards, they made up for in fitness, commitment and toughness.

    The snow covered tundra made for a very soft landing. He’d free fallen further than the others so had made the ground first. When the squad leader landed next he was already packing up his chute.

    CHAPTER 4

    December 10, 1983- Totemoff’s Lounge- Santa Fe

    Ski Area- New Mexico

    Robert Templeton, a man self-described as lacking a sense of humor, couldn’t help but smile when he saw him sitting at a corner table near the fireplace at Totemoff’s, the uniquely positioned bar half way down the mountain at the Santa Fe Basin Ski Area. Robert had thoroughly enjoyed the smooth early morning run begun from the panoramic beauty of the 12000 foot summit of the Tesuque Basin, down the gentle Gayway and onto the relatively simple Black Diamond Parachute trail which leveled off and eventually carried him to Totemoff’s. While the Santa Fe ski area lacked the cosmopolitan atmosphere of Vail or Aspen, and the variety, steepness and difficulty of

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