The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 8

  His sought after skills had brought employment in unique, isolated and exotic locales around the world. His job had also gotten in the way of two marriages and raising two kids who were mostly grown now. Wyrick spent more time on the road sleeping in motel rooms or the backs of vans or on hillsides or in building basements than his own bed back home in Maryland.

  His current contract assignment was filling in the missing pieces in the growing subject profile for one Lance Porter Priest, aka “Preacher.” Wyrick had a feeling he would be spending more time than usual on this candidate during the FSWE in September. His hunch had proven correct and he arrived back in Tulsa a few days earlier to begin planning and now executing a week of intense surveillance procedures. The secret Wyrick shared with Seibel about their young subject meant that this, all of this surveillance and investment, was not really a surprise.

  Experience had shown him that one week, two at the most, was more than sufficient for candidate evals. Really, a day suffices in most cases. In 24 hours, he can usually uncover enough information to build a case for rejection. People give away their weaknesses and potential problems for the agency during private moments alone at home, at work or with their partners or families.

  The candidates he is assigned to invasively inspect are not traditional personnel contestants. Wyrick hadn’t kept track of those he has seen pass this particular portion of their unbeknownst evaluation, but he knows of a few who are now in the coveted DCCO – Deep Cover Clandestine Operations. One thing he had learned during these assignments was that these are not candidates being considered for CIA office assignments or communications intel. They needed to possess certain skills and mindsets that permeated their conscious. They needed a rough edge to them.

  In two days of tracking Lance, Wyrick had witnessed nothing unusual about this particular candidate. Yes, this guy is quite a bit younger than most of the others, but there were a few even younger, none under 18 of course. But 21 is still a boy in most circumstances. He had come to like this one though. Something about Priest’s character was chameleon-like which made Wyrick want to learn more. This candidate had a number of layers to him. It was evident on the surface there is more to be discovered beneath.

  But getting close to college students is not an easy assignment. Many live on campus or right next door to campus and a man in his 40s hanging around college campuses can lead to police calls. Securing a maintenance or security uniform can work for short-term stakeouts. Wyrick had seen these scenarios blow up in his face on several occasions, especially since he happened to be a black man. Call it profiling or prejudice or fear; people are just naturally more suspicious of a black dude hanging around.

  He turned to remote surveillance technology back in the 70s and had become something of an expert in long-distance audio monitoring. Listening devices utilizing small battery-powered transmitters which could be placed just about anywhere had become his favorite surveillance tools. Video technology improved throughout the 80s. The size of cameras was finally coming down to a manageable risk in certain situations. But still not to a level Wyrick could be comfortable placing them in dicey remote locations.

  No video for this one though. Wyrick was certain he’d get what he needed by tailing Lance for a few days, planting the transmitters in his apartment and using the long-range microphone to capture the candidate’s conversations at school, and more importantly, at that used car lot.

  “Used car salesman,” Wyrick muttered to no one and smiled. “Too much.” The fact that this kid basically bullshitted his way through junior high and high school and right into college and now sold used cars really cracked Wyrick up. He and the small group he worked under contract with back in Virginia all had a good laugh around a table in a roadside diner about Priest selling used cars. “Perfect!” more than one of them had said and then joined the others in a laugh.

  Funny thing though, in listening to Lance via a directional microphone for three days on the lot, one thing became obvious. The damn dealership appeared to be the one place the kid didn’t lie. Just yesterday he steered a young couple away from a particular Mazda because it was making a disconcerting sound. He sold them a Nissan Sentra at a lower price, therefore a lower commission. And then there was the guy Lance had to talk out of buying a Ford pickup because it was just plain too much vehicle for him. Wyrick chalked Lance’s behavior at the dealership up to eccentricity. The kid had definitely turned out weird.

  Wyrick listened to the sounds emanating from the apartment 150 yards away. He had tuned up his ears 20 years earlier sitting in an undisclosed location in Europe listening to transmissions bouncing around the Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc. Through his experience, he was able to pick up on and discern between the slightest noises. Like Braden, who preferred to see his subjects in person instead of on video or film, Wyrick liked to hear it first-hand. He recorded everything for further analysis by others, but more than a little quality is lost when sounds are captured on tape. So he usually sits hunched over his little counter as he did now with his 1960s headphones mounted on his slightly balding head. He listened to the paper shuffling, the occasional belch and television programs viewed by this latest candidate. His listening skills allowed him to build a mental image of his subjects. He could basically “see” Lance sitting there on his couch reading and watching TV.

  Wyrick’s legal pad on the small shelf in his van contained the usual bulleted outline format he had used for two decades. During moments of silence or inane dialogue of the sitcom now on Lance’s television, Wyrick reviewed his notes from his surveillance. In doing so, he came to a conclusion that he had missed something. His in-depth knowledge of candidate Priest included reams of school records, occupational history, credit reports and analysis prepared by Braden and his psych eval team. He knew he would not likely get what he needed in 24 hours of observation, but a scan of his notes concluded that this kid didn’t have the car in drive. He was stuck in neutral. Wyrick recalled his discussion with Braden and follow-up conversations with his contacts back at the ranch that it all, and by all, everything, seemed to come a little too easy for Priest.

  Wyrick drifted for a moment as the two characters on Lance’s TV discussed some ridiculous situation they now found themselves in. He thought about Pete Marivich, the Pistol. “Pistol Pete” would take and make shots both in college and the pros that no one should have. Time after time, he set scoring records, often breaking his own. Wyrick, like so many others sitting in stands or glued to television sets, had marveled at Marivich’s scoring prowess. He truly made it look easy. The Pistol obviously worked at his craft, but the way he floated from top of the key to the wing and back and then turned in a flash to catch a pass and shoot another swishing basket was sheer poetry. Wyrick remembered watching an after-game interview with the young Pistol where he was asked how he does it. “Practice” was the one-word reply, but between the letters was a subtle code that simply stated some things just come natural to certain people. For Pistol Pete, squaring up and sinking a shot was as natural as putting one foot in front of the other.

  Priest had this same naturalness about him; the same confidence the Pistol exuded every time he eyed a shot. A confidence that said he’d make this shot and the next and the next. Priest excelled in pressure situations as well. And probably most important, when he missed or was knocked off kilter in some way, his recovery was quick and confident, almost without skipping a bit. Yet, it wasn’t overtly obvious to those who had not been through 611 pages of candidate Priest’s life. This young man’s success in building a cover was so complete, that he gave little or no hint of his prowess. He stayed humble and modest while putting others to shame or getting by with a whopper of a story. This undoubtedly required practice.

  Yet practice is different for each of us. For some it is repetition to build muscle memory. For others it is experiential to prepare for the actual event and the physical and psychological elements. For others, practice can involve deep visioning to essentially rehearse the e
vent, whether a speech before a board or a 100-meter hurdle race. Coaches will encourage athletes to envision success so that it can come easier. From what Wyrick had seen, Lance Priest practices in a manner that borrows aspects of each of these methods and more into a process that psychologist Braden had labeled “personality borrowing” and sometimes “stealing.” He basically became another person by copying them, by copying their actions, movements, facial expressions, speech, laugh.

  From what Wyrick could discern, Lance’s practice methods revolve primarily around reading. Books, maps, catalogs but most of all, people. The kid seems to possess a photographic memory and is able to grab certain aspects of everything he sees, hears, smells and touches. His practice involves borrowing these aspects and putting them into action. He plays different characters from minute to minute. It showed up mainly in the interview transcripts Braden and other compartmentalized agency members had gathered in just over six weeks. Interviewees would depict different people when describing candidate Priest. Utterly and totally different with detail piled upon detail. That took practice.

  Wyrick thumbed through Braden’s report for a 10th time and stopped on the passage he liked most. It read, “Candidate is perhaps most comfortable when faced with a challenge or set of challenges. He appears to excel, even live, for these moments when his current paradigm is challenged and a creative, improvised response is required. He has purposefully placed himself in these situations time and time again. It is as though he views these challenging situations as opportunities to practice, or better, perfect his performance skills.” Wyrick smiled to himself and put his finger to the headphone on his ear to get a better “view” of the room.

  One hundred and fifty yards away, sitting in front of his television with made-for-TV characters regurgitating lame lines followed by laugh tracks, a road atlas of the United States beside him, a phone book open to the yellow pages on his lap and an architectural reference guide in his hands, Lance put in motion plans for his next practice and envisioned success. The winning moment he saw in his mind was not being offered a Foreign Service job at the end of a serpentine bureaucratic governmental process. No, his goal was fooling them all into thinking he had a clue where he was going and what he was doing with his life. He practices for this particular result each and every day. The thrill for him is in the chase, not the end.

  A disembodied Lance floating above could only look at himself on the couch below and try like hell to see what he’d missed. He searched for clues. Was there a bug listening to him? Was there a video camera somewhere in the apartment? He knew something was there. He just couldn’t see it. Frustrating.

  Chapter 11

  Nondescript. That was the word the floating, hovering Lance used to describe the federal government building in Downtown Dallas. He was back where the fun had started three days before; watching from above as the earthbound Lance entered the building to begin his new life.

  Lance rode the elevator to the fifth floor at 7:45 a.m. The gal in her mid-20s riding up with him was headed to the same session. He now knew her as Sarah Ridenour, not her real name. They smiled at each other upon entering the lift and casually looked away during the ride.

  He couldn’t help but read her. Twenty-five. No ring left hand third finger, but there was an indent from a band. Blue contacts. Designer knock-off suit and size 7 ½ two-inch heels. Soccer player back in high school – medial collateral scar below her left kneecap. But the smell didn’t fit. She wore Diorissimo perfume, the fragrance Annette, Jimmy Lee’s wizened secretary at the dealership wore. It didn’t fit a 25-year-old.

  Lance did a little recall assessment during the slow upward drift of the ancient elevator. He had scouted out the building, available parking and multiple traffic options the previous evening. His drive in from Richardson before 7 a.m. was pleasantly uneventful as he beat much of the morning’s rush-hour traffic aiming towards the glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown Big D. The parking lot he chose offered all day for $12. He tipped the lot attendant an extra $5 to make sure no one parked behind him, potentially blocking him in until 5 p.m. The interior of the building was as vanilla as its exterior. Grey walls, greyer linoleum floors, no surprises.

  He politely held his hand in front of the opened doors allowing his fairly attractive but fake co-passenger to exit first. He then followed her down the hall to room 510 where they checked-in with a cordial, but cold receptionist who obviously found this day’s assignment of welcoming nobodies below her low pay grade.

  “Please have a seat and someone will be with you shortly,” the receptionist gestured to the chairs lining the wall and immediately returned to her newspaper.

  Lance and his elevator partner sat in two of the 10 chairs lining the walls of the small waiting room, an open seat between them. She proceeded to pull out a folded copy of the New York Times from her purse and continued a story she had started reading earlier. Lance craned his neck to scan the headlines on the front page. She caught his eye and smiled.

  “I only get to read the New York Times in the library,” he apologized.

  “No problem. That’s what I did back at school. Are you still in college?”

  “Yes,” he smiled back, “University of Tulsa.” He told the truth.

  “Really, I had a friend graduate from there.” Sarah lied to add detail to her story.

  “Really, who was that?”

  “Tina Stempler was her name in college, now she’s Tina Mayes. Mrs. Brad Mayes as she likes to joke.”

  “Don’t think I recognize the name. What degree did she graduate with?”

  “Marketing,” she replied and turned back to her paper.

  “Great.”

  “I’m Sarah Ridenhour by the way.” She turned back.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Vance Porter.” They shook hands. From above, Lance giggled at the little twist on his name. Stupid really.

  “Nice to meet you. I guess we’ll get to know each other a bit today.” Her smile was very nice.

  “That’s what I hear. Supposed to be six or eight of us, right?”

  “Yep.” And she turned back to her paper while turning the page.

  The door opened and two more candidates who made it to the oral assessment stage of the Foreign Service Officer applicant process entered. The gentleman was in his late thirties with tiny gold-rimmed glasses. The woman was probably 32 but had a premature grey streak in her black hair.

  Ann Bancroft. Lance thought to himself. The grey streak in her hair made him think of the movie The Graduate. Lance thought for maybe the 20th time in his life that it was amazing that Bancroft was only six or seven years older than Dustin Hoffman but was masterful at playing a seductive older woman. The opening chords and “doo-dooing” of the movie’s theme song started playing in his head and he had to listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing for a few minutes. Lance recalled reading somewhere that Joe DiMaggio had been really pissed when the song and movie came out. Joe didn’t think he had gone anywhere. Lance laughed at yet another bit of useless trivia rambling around his head. He would kill on Jeopardy!

  A moment later, another chap walked in. This guy was dressed for business with a navy suit, striking white shirt and deep red power tie. He was followed a few seconds later by two women in their late 20s who had struck up a conversation riding up in the elevator together. The heavier one finished their conversation with an exclamation, “Now, wouldn’t that be perfect.”

  The dour receptionist welcomed them and directed them to join everyone else by being seated.

  Lance scanned the group again from above, taking in details that hardly mattered to most but amounted to something more than nothing. Clothing, accessories, shoes, haircuts, eyewear and other minutia came together to create a whole, a complete and comprehensive visual portrait. Little things like being right or left-handed, cologne and leg position told him most of what he needed to know about his fellow oral assessees. Or so he thought at the time. Dumb.

  Sarah finished the front section of t
he Times and decided to put her paper away since the clock on the wall now read 8 a.m. sharp. Her timing was impeccable because less than five seconds later a door to the right of the receptionist opened and out walked Geoffrey Seibel. Lance didn’t know that was his name at the time, but would in a minute.

  Lance paused the image in his brain to examine the details. Seibel exuded travel, experience, sun-baked desert and steamy tropical intrigue. Lance could hear an ocean breeze blow in behind as Seibel walked out through the door to greet the group. He wore a very expensive suit. Lance guessed it cost significantly more than the $1,200 custom-tailored suits that Jimmy Lee loved to wear. And like the car dealer, Seibel wore gold on a couple of fingers and his wrist. Those props disappeared for his performances later during the day.

  “Well, good morning everyone.” Seibel’s smile was electric, a flashing neon light.

  A chorus of reciprocal “good mornings” went up and everyone adjusted in their chairs. The nerves kept so well in check suddenly came to the fore.

  “I am Geoffrey Seibel and I am one of your prompters today for the oral assessments portion of the Foreign Service Officer evaluation process. Seibel took another pace to the exact center of the small room just as an actor doing Shakespeare in the round might do. He made sure he smiled at each and every one of the candidates before going on.

  Lance paused the replay in his head and did a quick 360 around Seibel frozen in the middle of the room. No bulge in his jacket. No gun. Must have come later. He restarted the playback.

  “Congratulations on passing your written exams. You all have likely read how today will unfold. You will participate in a group session to start. Then we will break up into three smaller case management groups and then your individual assessments will round out the day.”