A Story of a Man Who Wasn't There

Dirk Striker’s Dream

                                         By Pete Schulte

Dirk confided to his wife, Cheri, about a recurring dream he was having. It was the one where he had an imminent test and he wasn’t prepared. If he didn’t pass the test he wouldn’t graduate from Metro U. He wouldn’t be a true Wildcat. What’s more, he couldn’t locate the classroom in a hallway where every room looked exactly the same. And to make matters worse, he was stark naked.

Cheri knew he was having nightmares because Dirk kept waking her with all his distressed thrashing about. “I wish you’d talked to somebody,” she said to him. “You’re driving us both crazy with these dreams.”

“I am talking to somebody,” Dirk replied. “I’m talking to you.”

“But what do I know about anything? Talk to a professional.”

Dirk made and kept an appointment with Dr. Rooter. He told Dr. Rooter everything he’d told to Cheri. “This is a fairly common dream you’re having,” said Dr. Rooter. “Most people can kind of just shake this one off, but you seem particularly bothered. I’d like to think it over and have you return next week.”

Dirk returned the following week eager to hear the doctor’s assessment. Dr. Rooter had a grave look upon his face. “I think, Mr. Striker, that the reason you’re having these dreams is because you never did take that test, you never did graduate from Metro U.”

“What?” said Dirk, aghast. “I most certainly did graduate. I have twenty different t-shirts, I go to all the games.”

“So what?” said Dr. Rooter. “You can still wear the t-shirts. You can still attend the games. You can support the school any way you’d like.”

“But I did graduate,” protested Dirk. “I really did.”

“Do you have a diploma?” asked the doctor. “If you do I’d really like to see it.”

“Oh, I’ll show you a diploma,” said Dirk. “I’ll show you.”

“Because I did some research, and nobody by the name of Dirk Striker has ever graduated from Metro U.”

Later that evening, Dirk and Cheri dug through their closets looking for the diploma. “Where are these damn diplomas?” asked Dirk. “Why don’t we have them on the wall?”

“Because we’re not nerds,” said Cheri.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Dirk.

Dirk admitted to Dr. Rooter that he couldn’t come up with his diploma but was sure it existed. For this session, Cheri joined her husband in the doctor’s office. She spoke up for Dirk to Dr. Rooter. “I’m sure he went to Metro. I’m certain of it. Isn’t that where we met, Dirk? Gosh, it was so long ago.”

“No,” Dirk admitted, “we met at a bar. Brooklyn’s. You remember, Shakey was there?”

“Oh yeah,” she replied. “Shakey.”

Dr. Rooter dismissed Dirk from the office. He wanted to speak to Cheri alone. “I wanted to ask you about your wedding,” said the doctor to Cheri.

“Yeah, what about it? We got married down in Pueblo.”

“How many people attended?” asked the doctor.

“I’d say 50 or so.”

“And how many came on behalf of Dirk?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Shakey was there.”

“And who exactly is Shakey, Dirk’s brother?”

“No, not his brother. His friend.”

“But no family?”

“No, no family,” Cheri said to Dr. Rooter. “But he’s from far away.”

“How far?”

“At least as far as Florida.”

“What are you saying?” questioned Dr. Rooter. “That’s not even a straight answer. We’re you ever really married?”

“I don’t know,” said Cheri, sobbing. “I don’t know!”

“What kind of name is Dirk Striker anyway?”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you even know this man?”

“I love him,” whispered Cheri. “I love him. He’s my Buckeroo.”

Dirk attended his next session with Dr. Rooter without Cheri. However, they were joined by a tall man with a dark suit. He introduced himself as Paul Aubry from the National Security Agency. After introductions were made and all got settled, Dr. Rooter spoke first. “Normally, Dirk, I wouldn’t discuss your case with anybody else but your spouse. But I didn’t see any other way of really helping you out unless I got some others involved.”

“So you called the NSA?” said Dirk.

‘Well, you’ll see why?” said the Doctor.

Paul Aubry lowered the dark shades he was wearing. “Mr. Striker, I’d like the discuss the biography you provided to Dr. Rooter.”

“It’s all true,” protested Dirk. “I didn’t tell any lies.”

“I don’t think you did either,” said Paul Aubry. “But let me elaborate.”

“Please.”

“The high school you claimed you attended, St. Charles High, doesn’t know you from Adam.”

“What? You mean I never went to St. Charlie’s? I was never a Blue Devil?”

“No, you weren’t. And the middle school you mentioned, Riviera, doesn’t exist anymore. It’s condominiums now.”

“Well, that’s Florida for you,” said Dirk.

“Same goes with your elementary school,” said Paul. “It seems, Mr. Striker, that you don’t exist at all. Never have.”

“What?” questioned Dirk. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“It didn’t to us either,” said Paul Aubry, “until we did a little more digging. It seems, Mr. Striker, that you were delivered to us long ago from one of our enemies. You were supposed to infiltrate and deliver unto them information that was very important to us. But something happened along the way. I don’t know, maybe you were bonked on the head or something? Maybe you took too much cough syrup? But for whatever reason, our agency has determined that you don’t know much of anything. In fact, we’re all astonished at how little you do know -- about any subject. Aside from being a good husband and a rabid Wildcats fan, there’s really nothing to you at all.”

“I might take offense to that.”

“It really doesn’t matter,” said Paul. “What’s interesting is that somewhere along the line you created this man, this Dirk Striker, and somehow forged a life for yourself, made a complete break with your former self and the mission you were ordered to complete. For that we give you the utmost credit.”

“Well,” said Dirk, “thank you, I guess.”

“The good news,” said Paul, “is that for whatever reason your country wants you back. They’ve agreed to a prisoner swap with one of our people who was captured.”

“I’m a prisoner?” asked Dirk.

“Right now you are,” said Paul.

From a high train window at Denver’s Union Station, Dirk said his final farewells to Cheri, who remained below on the platform. “Thanks for being my wife,” he said to her, “if you really were my wife.”

“Where are they taking you?” she asked. “What is your country anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Dirk. “They won’t tell me yet. I hope it’s Italy though. That’d be a swell place for sure.”

“If it’s Italy you’ll be getting a visitor real soon,” she said to him. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Dirky-boy. You’ll always be my Buckeroo!”

The train began to pull away. Dirk said to her. “Good-bye, Wildcats! Good-bye, America! Good-bye, Cheri, my love. I‘ll miss you most of all…”

The end.

Miki and Pete collaborate for their first Spy Thriller

Target: Howard Marks

By Miki and Pete Schulte

Kellen Conrad was still entry-level at the agency. He’d done nothing to esteem himself, but not given the chance either. His job was to keep surveillance after retired workers with the agency, to make sure they still knew how to keep secrets following their tenure of service. This was important. They knew a lot, and could still do ample harm to the agency despite advancing age and circumstance.

To Kellen though, the position had plenty of downtime, weeks of unadulterated boredom. He often fell asleep at his desk. The retirees, after all, weren’t all that active. They’d take walks, go to the park, the mall, and then eat an early bird supper. And that was on a busy day. Some days they’d just putz around in their underwear and do nothing at all.

But one day at the office there came a call with a tip. A double-agent, Boris Karkov, wanted Kellen to know that one of his possible charges, a Howard Marks, had chatted him up at the park and mentioned he’d worked on the 3.14 Project Series back in the day. Karkov thought the old man knew what he was taking about, though he appeared confused at times and was possibly suffering from Dementia.

Kellen studied up on Howard Marks and the 3.14 and found most of the documents blackened out. This was serious stuff, he thought, serious enough to kick it upstairs to Mr. Smith. Not doing so would be risky. Though this was probably nothing, a mistake and the wrath of Mr. Smith could end his career, or worse.

That same afternoon, Kellen was let into Mr. Smith’s office. He cautiously approached his intimidating boss. He was not invited to sit. “What have got, Conrad?” said Mr. Smith. “It’d better be important.”

“I’ve got a former, sir,” Kellen replied. “Howard Marks, age 91.”

“Never heard of him.”

“I did some checking,” said Kellen. “He’s in good physical health, this Marks, but mentally he’s slipping. Perhaps symptoms of dementia.”

“Keep going…”

“Anyway, Marks talked to my double, Karkov, in the park over a game of chess. It seems he mentioned something called the 3.14 Project Series. It sounded familiar to Karkov and he became concerned. What is the 3.14 anyway?”

“What that is, Conrad, is none of your concern. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, go about your business, okay Conrad? I’ll call you if I need you.”

With that, Kellen was dismissed from Mr. Smith’s office and returned to his own. The call from Mr. Smith came within the hour. He was ordered to return at once. This time he was asked to take a seat. “Conrad,” said Mr. Smith, “this is what you need to know. Marks must be terminated at once, and you’re going to arrange for this to happen. With his advanced age and dementia, he cannot be trusted with information regarding the 3.14. The 3.14 still has repercussions to this day. Is that clear to you?”

“It is clear,” replied Kellen, “but termination, sir? Is such an old man really that dangerous?”

“Now don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, Conrad. Marks has lived a long life, a good life. But he signed on for this just like we did. Rule number one: If you spill the beans, the beans spill you. You have a problem with that, Conrad?”

“No, sir.”

“Now your mission is to go to the West End Seniors Center. You will ask for Andy -- no last name. When you make contact, you will inform Andy that there has been a breach. You will provide the name Howard Marks. That is all. Also, you will be in full disguise. This will be an in-person contact. No calls or computer, no trace at all. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Conrad,” continued Mr. Smith, “you must not fail. Failure would be highly detrimental to the agency, and to you particularly. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I‘ve got it.”

Kellen felt ridiculous in disguise. He never wore a ball cap and this one seemed to sit funny on his head. His glasses were too large for his face and his fake mustache made him look like a 70’s era porn star. His limp felt forced and the artificial cast on his arm itched. He couldn’t wait to get this over with.

After arriving at the West End Seniors Center, Kellen waded through walkers and wheel chairs to get to the reception desk. He’d given up on the limp already. He was met at the desk by a young women wearing some kind of nurse uniform. Her name tag read ‘Paulette.’

Kellen Conrad had always thought himself too smart and cautious to believe in such a silly concept as love at first sight. That is, until he looked into the gray-green eyes of Paulette. Oh, he was smitten all right, but he had a job to do. He had to help kill an old man.

“May I help you?” asked Paulette.

Kellen didn’t know whether to ask for Andy right off or poke around for him first. So he said to Paulette, “My parents are aging. I wanted to get a look at your establishment.”

“Our establishment?”

“Well, I wanted to see if it was a nice place. That people are cared for.”

Paulette thought for a moment, then said, “They are cared for here. I see to that. They’re like family to us, all the way to the end. Would you care for a tour?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“But first,” said Paulette, “you must tell me where you got those glasses. They’re fantastic. You look like Elton John.”

“Oh, thanks. My usual ones broke.”

“Like your arm,” she continued.

Kellen glanced down at his fake cast. “Yes, like my arm.”

“What is your name anyway?”

“My name?” he said, buying some time to think of a good one.

“Yes, your name.”

“My name…is Ben Sterling.”

Paulette smiled and thrust out her hand for him to shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ben Sterling.”

Paulette’s tour was thorough and very detailed, but Kellen wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Instead, all he could think about was wanting to hold her hand, wanting to kiss her lips, wanting her, loving her. It was the best tour he ever had, this tour of the old folks home. Then she came upon a room and poked her head in. “Mr. Marks, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” he said from his bed, this tiny old man under the covers.

“No,” laughed Paulette, “of course you’re not dead. I’m afraid you’re going to be with us for quite some time.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that,” replied Howard Marks. “Please don’t tell me that.”

“Now, Mr. Marks, please don’t joke around like that. I’m giving Mr. Sterling a tour, and we don’t want to give him the wrong impression. This is a happy place.”

“Sterling,” said Howard Marks, “run -- don’t walk. That’s all I’m saying. This one’s beautiful, but I trust her about as far as I can throw her. The pretty ones are deadly.”

“Oh, Mr. Marks,” said Paulette, “you tease me so much.”

They soon left his room and resumed the tour. When they got back to the desk, Paulette checked her watch and hinted to Kellen that their interaction was over. Kellen quickly gathered his senses. “I’m wondering, Paulette, if an acquaintance of mine is still working here. His name is Andy. Do you know him?”

“Andy? Of course. I’ll call him in.”

Andy came in and looked Kellen over warily. Kellen greeted him as if he were a long lost friend and did his best to find them a place out of earshot from the desk and Paulette. Satisfied, he whispered to Andy, “There’s been a breach…”

It was well after midnight when Andy entered the room of Howard Marks. He found Howard, wide awake, sitting at his desk by the window. “You’re still up?” inquired Andy.

“Yes,” replied Howard. “I knew there was something screwy going on when I had two visitors today. That’s two more than I’ve ever gotten.”

“You mentioned the 3.14 to somebody at the park. You know you can’t do that.”

“I did?” said Howard. “Well, maybe I did. I can’t keep track any longer. It‘s all so confusing.”

“I know,” said Andy. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Wait,” replied Howard. “Before you do you worst, let me have one more drink -- and you have one too, with me. For old time‘s sake.”

“That’s fine, Howard. One more drink.”

“What will it be,” asked Howard, pulling two bottles from the lower part of his desk, “whisky or gin?”

“Whiskey is fine,” said Andy.

Howard poured two glasses and passed one of them to Andy. They toasted to good times and then it was down the hatch. Andy was fine for a moment and then felt something burning deep inside. Then he went to breath but couldn’t without gasping. Then he knew he shouldn’t have taken that drink.

“Why did you choose whiskey?” asked Howard. “Doesn’t anyone drink gin anymore?”

Kellen got word that Andy was found dead. He had no choice but to give this information to Mr. Smith. Needless to say, he was not pleased. “Andy is dead? That fool. I should just hire senior citizens for these positions. Everyone thinks they’re so stupid, and yet, look what happens? Marks is alive.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You’re sorry? Well, Conrad, I have no use for your sorrow. I need you to contact the one person who will not fail, the one person who has never failed. I need you make contact with… Paulette.”

“Paulette?” questioned Kellen.

“Yes. Paulette.”

The end.

Miki Reviews Chris Pavone's, The Accident

cover photo courtesy of tatteredcover.com

On Shelves Now!

The Accident by Chris Pavone

My first experience with Chris Pavone's writing was with the audio version of his novel, The Expats.  The book was a fun and exciting CIA thriller with a kick ass woman as the main character.  I can't tell you how many turns I missed or how many phone calls I ignored as I got stuck in the world Pavone created.

When I found out that Pavone had another CIA novel hitting bookstores, I just could not wait to get my hands on a copy.  Luckily for me, when The Accident reached my reading pile, I was not disappointed.  Furthermore, when I realized that the book was a CIA thriller in the publishing world, I nearly leaped out of my skin and into the pages of the book.

As a self-proclaimed book nerd (others will also vouch for me too), books about the book world really get me going. This one, however, may be one of the best I have ever read.  I work for a publishing company, and this book made me feel less like a nerd and way more like that kick ass female in The Expats.  

The subject matter is not the only gold star awarded to this novel.  The writing is smart, the plot is thick, and the word thriller does not do the book justice.  I hope Pavone writes a novel every summer, because this is what I call pleasure reading.

"I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review."