The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 7

“From everything I've seen, he’s a liar on par with the greatest.” Braden added.

  “You got it,” Wyrick leaned back in his chair for a moment and put his hands behind his head. He had spent a good part of the last two weeks reacquainting himself with Lance Priest and had become an expert of sorts. “This kid’s entire life is a lie. You interview five different people and you get five different stories. Very subtle differences. Totally believable, totally detailed; amazing. I’ve been with more than a dozen so far and I can tell you this kid, Preacher, is the real thing.”

  “Preacher. Can you believe that nickname? That’s irony for you.” Braden sat down in a desk and stretched out his legs. “I felt like I was reading in layers in his file. One set of lies, built upon another level of falsehoods which was in-turn built on a foundation of 100 percent prevarication.”

  “And that’s doctor talk for good lies, right?” Wyrick giggled and leaned back into the monitor to work the video joystick.

  “Yep.” Braden replied and rubbed his eyes. The camera zoomed in even tighter on Lance’s face. His eyes took up the entire monitor screen. Braden leaned in to look over Wyrick’s shoulder at the screen. “The best ones are able to work in the most intricate details. Just like an artist works in oil or water or clay. This one builds a house of lies on a frame of details that is mind-boggling. I don’t think I’ve come across anyone at his age that is half as skilled at it. Such nuance, so much dedication to it. It’s not pathological though. Its something else driving him. Either way, his methods are very impressive.”

  “Most get caught when we’re young and don’t stay committed to it like him. Or if they do build a life of lies, they have to move around, skip town. He is completely comfortable staying put and building the web around him.” Wyrick kept the camera tight on Lance’s eyes. “Man, I’m looking forward to seeing what he puts down in this test. Did you read his essay on Marcus Aurelius from his freshman year? I believed everything he wrote… Had to pull out an encyclopedia to see if it was true. And when I found out it was horse shit, I remember thinking Priest’s version was better. I wanted to believe it instead of the facts. Now that’s good.”

  “I didn’t read that yet. But his letters of recommendation to TU were phenomenal.” Braden giggled. “They gave excellent recommendations and spoke of him as a young man with much potential to be fulfilled. They were each different, felt like truly different people wrote each one. Very good, especially since none, not one of those people exists.”

  Braden sat back. “You know what is really beautiful though is when Preacher does get caught. Doesn’t happen much, but when it does he just rolls with it.”

  “Yah. No squirm.” Wyrick added.

  “None. He is able to convince others that their facts are wrong or at least suspect. Brilliant I tell ya. I like him.” Braden smiled again. “And that nickname.”

  “Preacher. Man that’s perfect.” Wyrick smiled and added, “Too bad his government has to kill him.”

  “All the good ones.” Braden added. “He might do some good before he’s gone though.”

  The psychologist unfolded his scratch paper and wrote a few more notes while they were fresh in his mind. He’d record them into his TER back in Virginia.

  T.E.R. stands for Talent Evaluation Report. And Lance Priest’s life would truly never be the same when Braden submitted it to a few key people in charge of clandestine operations for a small government agency tasked with gathering intelligence for the nation.

  Lance Priest might think about declining an offer, but he wouldn’t. How did Braden know? He circled three words he had written earlier in the upper right corner of the page – born for this.

  He then wrote three last words – the ideal candidate. But then he furrowed his brow. Wyrick had said the more appropriate word a few moments earlier. Braden scratched out the word ideal and wrote perfect. That fit better. The perfect candidate.

  Chapter 9

  “Right there. Just like I told you. The kid friggin smiled at the camera.”

  Three men were gathered in a small room, a video-editing suite. Wyrick and Braden sat. Standing behind the two of them was Seibel. They were watching footage captured in Dallas three days earlier.

  Wyrick paused the video right at the moment Lance leaned in to whisper in Seibel’s ear. Lance’s hunch about the clock on the wall having a video camera was right. In fact, each room Lance had been in during the fake Foreign Service Officer candidate oral assessment had been rigged with video and audio equipment. All to capture Lance Porter Priest for further evaluation.

  “Can you believe his cajones? Kid never ceases to amaze.” Wyrick added.

  “I’ll say it again, like I did in Dallas, his performance was pitch perfect,” Braden said.

  “True, that’s what he said. And I have to say that is an excellent description for Preacher. His performance is always spot on. I’m still looking for his weak spot.” Wyrick smiled at the frozen image of a winking Lance Priest on the screen. He’d captured hours of video and days of audio on Candidate Priest. The veteran surveillance professional probably knew more about the subject than anyone else in the world. He’d spent more time with Lance than many of his family members and most of his friends. He, like Seibel, also knew a secret or two about young Mr. Priest.

  “Take it back to just before he makes his move and play it again,” Seibel ordered. He had replayed the scene in his head dozens of times. Looking up at Lance’s completely passive face as he feigned resignation lifting his hand from the folder. And in the next moment, the kid was a blur, pinning Seibel’s arm to the table, shoving it across his body and jamming the gun into his head. It was poetry in motion. Embarrassing as all hell for the CIA veteran of three decades, but poetry nonetheless.

  Seibel thought he was ready for anything in the moment before Lance took control. Yes, the kid had the high ground because he was standing. But Seibel had a number of options. He could explode upward and throw the table. He could reach up and grab the kid’s tie and yank it down until his nose smashed into the tabletop. Or he could simply pull his gun and put it to the kid’s head.

  But Seibel had been wrong about being ready. Grabbing an arm and shoving it sideways while keeping hundreds of pounds of pressure on it was something Seibel had not foreseen. In his replays of the scene over the last 69 hours, he still could not see this move as an option. It was unnatural.

  The other things he kept seeing were Lance’s eyes. What he saw in the moment before the kid acted was emptiness. Lance literally went away, disappeared for a moment. His eyes unfocused. Seibel wasn’t sure about it, but the video he had just seen confirmed it. He didn’t mention it to Wyrick or Braden. He’d look deeper into this aspect in the future.

  Seeing the whole thing again on sanitized video gave Seibel a new perspective. This kid did the unexpected at virtually every turn. He was unpredictable. After all the parameters had been plugged into the complicated formula, the computer algorithms had been wrong about him. They predicted he didn’t have it in him, didn’t have what it takes. The computers said his correct responses on the questionnaire were just an outlier, a fluke. His IQ, school records, demographic background and genetics all said he was not a candidate. But the computers at Langley couldn’t hear, couldn’t see the lies. Couldn’t understand the layers of detail this kid worked into his vivid storytelling. A computer couldn’t feel just how strong Preacher was as he held Seibel’s arm in a vice against the table. And most of all, the computer didn’t look into his eyes when he put a gun to your head.

  Seibel leaned in between the other two to watch as Lance, with a completely passive look on his face, took total control of the room. “Damn.” It was all Seibel could say.

  The video continued to play. Lance leaned in close to Seibel and winked at the tiny video camera in the clock on the wall. Lance’s menacing words that followed the wink took on new meaning seeing it from this vantage point. Seibel could see the performance, the artist at work. All he could do was smile
.

  In the next video frames, Lance moved the gun and pulled the trigger. Seibel instinctively cringed like he had days before when the gun exploded beside his ear. It was still ringing. The screen went blank. The video camera didn’t make it.

  “And this is all we have from Dallas. Our resources are still gathering security camera footage from buildings near the federal building.” Wyrick paused the static onscreen and looked up at Seibel. “Do you want to go back and watch the small group session again? I love that part where he stands up and starts directing the room. Awesome stuff.”

  “No, I’m okay.” Seibel looked at his watch. It was 11:45 am. Three and a half hours until Lance was to call the designated number. “I think I’ll get going. Need to visit with Marvin before this afternoon.”

  “You still think he’ll call?” Wyrick asked.

  “He’ll call,” Seibel and Braden answered in unison.

  “I’ll be ready,” Wyrick turned back to his equipment and ejected the tape.

  Walking out of the room, Seibel thought of his dream the night before. Soon after reaching R.E.M. sleep, he had been inundated with visions of Lance Priest. The kid was running at breakneck speed for hours on end. He could see the horror in Preacher’s face as he looked back over his shoulder. He saw Lance round a corner, trip and fall. He rose back to his feet with a bloodied face and hands. Up ahead, as he rounded another corner, he stopped and plastered himself to a red brick wall. He held a gun in his hand, but he was no killer. He would be no match for the experienced murderers tracking him.

  Seibel wanted to shout at him, tell him to keep running, don’t stop. But he couldn’t. The kid was on his own. But in the next moment, he was off running again. He turned corners, hurdled boxes and emerged from an alley onto a dimly lit city street. He could feel Preacher's heart pounding, his lungs aching from the effort. The kid was pretty much spent but he kept moving.

  The dream ended there. Seibel wasn’t able to get back to sleep and see what happened or if Lance made it. Reports from the field were sketchy, but the two killers he’d put on the case were not very credible or ethical gents. He’d have to wait until 3:17 p.m., 2:17 p.m. Central, to see if Lance was still among the living. This was a brutal trial by fire, but a necessary one if Seibel’s chosen candidate was truly worth the effort.

  His eyes were closed, but he was moving, racing. Constant motion with wind whipping through his ears and lungs spent. How much more did he have left? The bullet struck him from behind. It hit his left shoulder. The pain was immediate and radiated outward as he continued at an impossible pace.

  He had to keep running or he’d be dead. Wait. Maybe he already was. His eyes opened. It was dark in the hotel room. Another dream. Another death.

  Chapter 10

  Candidates who achieve a passing score on the Foreign Service Officer Written Examination may, if they choose, progress to a second round of evaluation by the United States Information Agency. Candidates invited to participate in an oral assessment may travel at their own expense to Washington D. C. or a number of regional locations where the oral assessments are conducted.

  From over his own shoulder, Lance watched himself read the letter that arrived in the Thursday mail. He froze the scene and looked around the tiny room; positive he’d missed something.

  He watched as Lance below him immediately flipped to the next page in the packet to see the host cities for oral exams. Dallas was right there third from the top.

  “Cool, Big D,” he said to no one. The date for the oral assessments in Dallas was next month on a Tuesday. He’d have to take off from school and the dealership. But that should be no problem, he expected to be well over his sales quota and missing a class or two was no big deal. He left the other pieces of mail unopened on the kitchen counter of his small and Spartan apartment and plopped down on the couch to read the letter again.

  He’d half forgotten about the Foreign Service and taking the test six weeks earlier. But the idea of getting in front of others and pitting his creative talents against a bunch of educated folks intrigued him. He’d put his B.S. skills up against the best, anytime, anywhere. Reading through some of the frequently asked questions on the third sheet, he learned about the format of the oral assessment, the panel makeup and key areas he should study beforehand.

  He put the letter on the coffee table and turned on the TV to catch the last half of the 10 p.m. news. His days were usually a combination of school each morning, an hour or two of studying, or at least wandering the library, and then a shift at the dealership. He was number two this year in used car sales, which really pissed off the full-time guys. It had been extra cold this afternoon and he was as surprised as the other guys to close two deals, an 86 Corolla and an 85 Mazda RX7. And best of all, both the buyers drove onto the lot asking for him by name. Referrals are gold in this business.

  The female news anchor read from her teleprompter that new details were just reported on the downing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. A link between luggage and Libyan terrorists had those in Washington calling for immediate action against Gadhafi.

  “Muammar, Muammar,” Lance muttered. “Survive a missile attack from Ronnie and now you let these pricks blow up an airplane. Not smart.”

  Lance turned the volume down and leaned forward to pick up one of three road atlases sitting on the coffee table. The particular one he chose was a detailed compilation of roadways in the U.S. He thumbed through the states to T for Texas and traced his finger from the Oklahoma border southwest along Highway 75 right into downtown Dallas. He flipped the page for the close up view of the Dallas/Fort Worth. Another close-up map showed downtown Dallas, just what he was looking for. The letter listed the address of 900 East Commerce Street, looked like it was just a few hundred yards off I-35 and just west of Highway 75. Lance already knew the area, but just loved to look at maps.

  “Three and a half, maybe four hours door to door, just need to pick a motel.” He started backing up Hwy 75 to areas north of town. He considered the idea of staying with his aunt in far northwest Fort Worth, but that was an hour from downtown Dallas, with little or no traffic, which wouldn’t be the case at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday.

  He chose Richardson just north of the 635 Loop for his first motel location. He got up and grabbed the yellow pages from a kitchen drawer and plopped back onto the couch. Under “motels” he found the familiar Motel 6 and Best Western logos and chose Motel 6 for this one. Lance was about to pick up the phone when something caught his eye.

  On the floor, under the deck chair against the wall, was a foam beer koozee. Now, the fact that a beer koozee was in the apartment was no surprise. He and his occasional guest would use the foam rubber sleeves to keep their beer cans cool out around the pool. But this particular koozee had been sitting on the armrest of a cheap white deck chair for five months without being moved. Lance hadn’t had anyone over in a long while and more to the point, he had said to himself the night before that he needed to put that thing away. As usual, he didn’t and it was sitting there on the armrest 14 hours ago when he left for school.

  Two explanations he could see. Building maintenance, in the form of the nosy apartment manager, had come in for some reason, like changing out the air filter in his HVAC unit. Or someone else had been in the apartment. He knew now, it was the second explanation.

  A quick scan of the room saw nothing else out of place but he stood and paced the junior apartment just to be sure. Walking into his bedroom, he saw nothing conspicuous. He opened the small door in the hall to take a look at the heating and air unit. The sticker on the metal panel holding the air filter was dated six months earlier. Lance stepped into the kitchen and could not detect anything amiss. The female anchor said sports and weather would be next and to stay tuned for more news.

  “Stay tuned,” Lance said to no one. The disembodied Lance floating above watching a replay of the scene mouthed the words.

  Lance couldn’t see him, but someone else was listening to the news ancho
r. Approximately 150 yards from where he stood in his apartment, a plain white van sat parked. The van looked like any other electrician van with a panel behind the front seats. But behind this particular screen sat contract surveillance specialist Frank Wyrick hunched over a small radio unit listening intently to the activity taking place in apartment 7C. Wyrick had been in the unit hours earlier. He had confirmed Lance’s presence at the dealership by calling and asking to speak with Mr. Priest. The receptionist put him on hold and when Lance picked up, Wyrick hung up the pay phone and drove across the street to Lance’s apartment.

  While in the junior size apartment with a small kitchen, sleeper sofa, bedroom with no door and surprisingly clean bathroom for a single male tenant, he placed several small radio transmitting devices. One was inside the lid of the smoke alarm, which was conveniently located high on the wall across from the couch. Another was in the bedroom adhered to the underside of the base of a bedside lamp. The third was in the phone handset hanging on the wall. Wyrick had been successful in planting the devices, but upon leaving the unit, he bumped the thin plastic deck chair that rightly should have been out on the small balcony. In doing so, he knocked a red koozee with a radio station logo off the chair. Because it was made of foam, it made little or no sound when it landed. It was the only visible evidence of his invasion.

  Wyrick wrote ‘stay tuned’ on the legal pad sitting on a small counter next to the radio unit and smiled to himself. “I am.” He said to no one.

  Bugging, wiretapping or otherwise delivering clandestine obtained information via audio from a subject or group of subjects inside the borders of the United States is not normal procedure for the CIA. In fact, it is illegal. Any information gathered through such means would be spotty at best if presented in a court of law. But Wyrick wasn’t collecting evidence for use in a court case. And he was not actually an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. His contract status prevented others from tracking his activities and therefore made him and his impressive skills in undetected surveillance quite valuable.