The Janitor

By James Bradley

The journey of a man through war, reporting, trained assassin for his government, and his career as an independent. Running for his life and the safety of his family from the system that employed him as a world wide assassin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Bradley
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301914340

James Bradley

James Bradley is a writer and critic. His books include the novels Wrack, The Deep Field, The Resurrectionist, Clade, and Ghost Species; a book of poetry, Paper Nautilus; and The Penguin Book of the Ocean. Alongside his books, James has an established career as an essayist and reviewer, whose work has appeared in publications including The Guardian, The Monthly, Sydney Review of Books, Times Literary Supplement, Meanjin, and Griffith Review. His fiction has won or been shortlisted for a wide range of Australian and international literary awards, and his nonfiction has been shortlisted twice for the Bragg Prize for Science Writing and nominated for a Walkley Award. In 2012, he won the Pascall Award for Australia’s Critic of the Year. He is currently an Honorary Associate at the Sydney Environment Centre at the University of Sydney.

Book preview

Chapter One

Solitude

The climate in this part of the world was definitely not to my liking, despite the constant downpour the heat was oppressive, with the never-ending rain only adding to the muggy heat, it was wearing me down. The pounding rain on the thin tin roof of the small room, coupled with the fact that I was lonely walking through a self-imposed exile from my wife of less than 2-years along with having elected to do same with my family, was pushing me against the wall of loneliness and fear.

Physically and mentally worn out, alone, hiding and in fear for my life – suffering through long-nights and equally long days where I very seldom ventured outside of my damp and musty room on the Yucatan Peninsula, I’m tired. The room where I sit reminds me of the story told by Charles Dickens, The Mystery of Edwin Drood where he described a room as the meanest and closest of small rooms. My room is by all accounts a closet in most major hotels, situated close to the Gulf of Mexico a shelter that includes a large ceiling fan that turns day in and day out, with a single 50 watt exposed light bulb attached to the steel shaft of the fan – the bulb barely bright enough to illuminate all corners of the 14 foot by 16 foot room, with little bathroom with no seat on the bowl, a cold water shower, small sink, and a refrigerator that worked part time. During the past few months my only immediate friend in the world is a tiny field mouse who had wandered in one evening, I feed him bread every time I think about it, whereas he now sometimes sits and watches me as I sit propped up on my bed scanning through the documents on my laptop. I have no connection to the Internet, my mind locked on the technical fact that such connections can be traced, and the other fact that it would be me that would create an incident in my random searching that could be my downfall.

As it is I sat waiting, I can’t recall the instant when my mind suddenly shifted gears or why, but today as the rain pounded down I finally made up my mind to change my present situation. Over the next twelve hours I assembled a plan on my laptop redoing it many times before I was satisfied it would work.

I slept in the next day, after rolling out of bed to the persistent sound of another heavy rain, over a cup of instant coffee I once again went over my plan – there were a few weak points, situations that would have to be worked through as the plan progressed – as I sat there that evening I drifted back into my past my mind moving back over my life and how and why I had become a hunted person.

Chapter Two

The Beginning

I was born in the Emerald City a few months before the end of World War II in the Pacific, my mother of Tlingit and Swedish parents hailing from a small village in Southeast Alaska, my father of Tlingit parents from another small town in Southeast Alaska. Shortly after I was born my mother and I were soon back amongst my fathers family in his town, she had been visiting my Swedish grandfathers relatives in Seattle when I made the pre-mature decision that I had had enough time bundled within her body, needless to say a surprise to everyone including my mother, she and I went home.

I grew up in the small town as any normal kid, raising hell in my later years, albeit under the piercing eyes of two grandmothers, two grandfathers and a host of rough and tumble aunts and uncles, who were raising their own – in other words a large mess of cousins, along with four brothers and two sisters.

My dad was a commercial fisherman most of the time, whereas during the off-season you would find him either hunting or taking a paying customer on small safari’s after whatever type of game they were sought – sometimes the mighty grizzly, mountain goats or a moose. Mostly he hunted for the entire family, and as I reached an age where he thought I was old enough he dragged me along teaching me skills that included shooting. After graduating High School and spending my last summer working in a local seafood cannery, he and I had a shooting contest at one of the family picnics – my rifle must have been better than his as I out shot him eleven times out of twenty – he poured me a stiff drink out of his steel flask and we talked for hours – just one of many of our conversations, but my last real sit down with him as he passed away about five years later.

At 17-years-of-age I went off to a technical school in New York City on a Bureau Indian Affairs program from a town of less than 1,300 souls to a city of over 5 million – talk about culture shock – compare it to a warm pool in sunny southern California to a dip in the Arctic Ocean. After two years of being stuffed with enough material to choke a full grown elephant I emerged as an educated Tlingit with a technical degree in Electrical Engineering, shortly thereafter I was drafted to do my bit in the early stages of the Vietnam War. At the young age of twenty and so many months I walked down a troop transport gangplank and began my career in the art of killing my fellow man.

My primary duty in the Army was as a radioman, where I carried a thirteen pound monster two-way radio strapped on my back over hill and dale along with a share of swampy fields and low hanging vines and limbs in the jungle. Not to denied any of the fun the other soldiers were having I managed to kill more than a few North Vietnamese that walked in front of my rifle, plus some with my 45-calibur pistol, in fact I got so good at it I was soon relieved of my radio and promoted to squad leader with a $25 a month raise.

I had spent just under two-years in the land of death before a wayward artillery shell pushed a branch through my gut giving me a ticket back to a military hospital just south of Tacoma, Washington. It was when I was at the hospital I met the mother of my two children, after being discharged we married and I went to work at Boeing on guidance systems for nuclear air-ground missiles. I toughed it out for six years, managing to advance my technical degree to a full degree under a program that Boeing had with the University of Washington – at the end of the six years I was caught up in the massive layoffs in 1972 as President Nixon decided he was going to pull in our presence in Vietnam as the popular opinion in the US was against the war. I opened a shop for electronics repair along with being a consultant for various disciplines of electronics’, my business did well for about 22 months, but in the interim I was bored stiff and my marriage was coming apart. My wife and I sat down one evening and discussed our relationship, tears were shed by both of us as we agreed that we were not meant to be and that was that. Normal arrangements were settled on concerning the two girls (Kim born in 1971 and Erin 1973) and within two weeks she had moved back to San Francisco to be near her parents, who in effect raised our two girls while she went back to work in the medical field.

Sitting one evening in my apartment I tossed many idea’s around concerning my future. Keeping company with a quart of Kentucky bourbon, the end of the evening saw me deciding to try my hand at being a reporter. Although now I realize my sudden change of occupation was a new chance at life, at the time I just believed it would change my boring existence…that weekend I drove up to Greenwood in north Seattle to visit my mother, she thought I was nuts but being my mother gave a nod of acceptance and muttered what will be, will be and that was that.

I spent the next six-months going to class at a local community college and living in the basement of my mother’s house, hey it was paid for and not to crowded as there were only two of my sisters at home – one still in high school and the other going to UW. We all enjoyed some wild evenings and over the six months re-established our family values. During that time I pounded out papers on events taking place around Puget Sound, going through the miles on my Oldsmobile, taking pictures and interviewing in building my portfolio to present as my credentials when I went for a position. At the time Seattle had two major newspapers, one sold a morning addition the other covered the evening news – I knew I wasn’t television or radio material and didn’t even entertain the idea of applying.

At the end of March 1974 I landed a freelance job at the morning rag, and over the following 10 months did quite well, managing to make enough to get an apartment close to downtown and make my monthly child-support payments with a little left over – plus couple of short vacations driving down I-5 to visit my girls in San Anselmo across the Golden Gate in Marin County.

December 1974 our senior editor called my immediate editor and told her that he wanted to meet with me, being a bit on the nervous side I went upstairs to either collect my gee we’re sorry paper or get a royal balling out on a piece I had done on one of the local tribes and their battle for nation status with the US government.

I was shown into his office and was surprised to see our international editor and a couple of people I did not know, the senior editor Ted Jamison pointed a bony finger at an empty chair and proceeded to introduce me to the three gentlemen after which he launched into a sales talk that forever changed my life.

Jim, we called you here to offer you a position writing for our international desk, a position that will give you a steady salary along with a generous expense account, everyone here has been reading your articles and are impressed with them along with the pictures that accompany them – in fact very impressed.

The international editor, Fred Arbuckle piped in, Jim the job will have you relocating to the Middle East, to Lebanon in particular where it looks like things are going to get pretty hot over the next few months – maybe leading into a civil war. You’ll be stationed in Beirut primarily, but will mainly follow the action – working with the US government we have established a diplomatic pouch for your reports along with a room that is within the American compound or sphere of influence – but you’ll be on your own and can report in your normal manner – but keep in mind if you use the diplomatic pouch the government will be reading them and may or may not pass them on to us.

When do I leave? was my simple response – my mind flashing over the lucky break – I was on my way to being another Ernie Pyle – wow!

We’re working on your paperwork now, Ted said, it should be ready by Monday – we’ll have a new passport for you with a snap of you provided by our press room.

Damn today was Wednesday the 20th and if things worked out I could be in Beirut by the 27th, Well this is a surprise, is it okay that I take the rest of the week off?

Yes, we realize it is short notice and that you’ll have to get your affairs in order, if you need additional time let us know so we can arrange a modified ticket – as for now you’ll be flying out of New York City next Tuesday to Paris, with a connecting flight to Istanbul and onto Beirut – we’ve booked you into the Holiday Inn with an open date for return, if that is okay?

I wasn’t about to argue with my luck and quickly agreed to their conditions, walking out of the office I was on cloud nine – man what a break, here I was in a new career and just a bit over the age of twenty-nine.

Chapter Three

Reality

My mind snapped back to reality, my ears once again tuned to the falling rain on the tin roof, with a grim look on my face I reflected that if I knew then what I knew today I would have run from that office and that meeting screaming – if only. But as most of our lives maybe it is a good thing time travel will not allow us to peer into the future and that it is our memories that either prevent us from making the same mistake twice or try again for a more refined outcome, we humans are strange that way.

Chapter Four

Lebanon

My preparation for leaving involved having a sit down with my family, who all lived in the Puget Sound, and a long telephone call to my ex and my two girls with sincere apologies for not being able to see them before I left, backed with heavy promises that I would deliver some gifts for them on my return. Having no lady friend at the time, being too busy in my new career I had no obligations or teary goodbyes.

I flew out late Monday afternoon on Pam Am and flew into Beirut on Tuesday evening, and by midnight was safely tucked into my hotel bed by 2 AM on Wednesday, as I drifted into dreamland the dreams I remember that night included me sitting on a wharf watching the setting sun creep down behind snow capped mountains – later reflection had me thinking of my home town in Southeast Alaska – a lot had transpired in the last 12 plus years.

It took me over two weeks to find my way around Beirut, it truly was a city of mixed nationalities along with deserving its description as the most exciting city of the Eastern Mediterranean – I fell in love with Lebanon. During the two weeks I made friends with a taxi driver, meeting him at the bar of the Phoenician Hotel, and soon had him as my permanent driver advancing him what amounted to $25 per day, plus gasoline – he was happy and his cab was a fairly new Peugeot –I was happy.

He provided me with a running update of the area, talking continuously as we zipped in and out of the crowded streets – in less than thirty days George educated me in the differences that would be found in the various religious factions and their strongholds. In the meantime I wrote pieces on the region mailing them off via my drop at the US Embassy, accompanied with rolls of film – I gave no thought to my mail being intercepted simply because although things were a bit tight in the Palestinian refuge camps they seemed to be under control, consequently my articles mainly dealt with the everyday life of the Lebanese.

By the first of the year I had met most of the correspondents from other newspapers, along with the local shop owners around the districts – life was good and in all aspects was as peaceful as my home in Seattle.

One evening George and I sat in a local café, during our conversation he reached his hand over and laid it on top of mine, Lets take a walk, he said. Paying the damages for our drinks I followed him outside, strolling along the causeway he began talking. The calm and quiet you have experienced is about to change it is hoped that upcoming events will not last long, but those of us with families that go back centuries in this land really believe we’re in for some hard times, now whether this is fact we really don’t know, but the word in our alley’s is that our land is on the verge of major internal fire. I’m telling you this for two reasons, the first being I suggest you leave, the second being if you stay I will help you find a better place to hang your hat.

How much of a fire? I asked.

The rumors flying around the streets that it will be a major one, the people who have lived here for many years, both Muslim and Christian are getting pretty upset with the Palestinian refugee camps – where some feel they have become a country within our country, and the future really holds no promise for returning to their homeland – therefore there is real wall being constructed between all the citizens of Lebanon and Arafat and his PLO, which dictates the politics and policies of the camps.

Over the next two months I learned via conversations with George and others who spoke English better than I spoke Lebanese the history behind what they figured would drive the up and coming conflict – the history of the country was a bit more complex than I realized, knowing that about half-way through my brief education that I truly was American being sheltered in my own little society ignoring the real history of the World much less the Middle East.

My articles over the months included part of this history, if they were published I really believed that at least the readers of my paper would be educated, little did I know that our International editor was chopping them to pieces putting a different slant on my carefully composed work.

Around the middle of March I was visited one afternoon in the bar of the Phoenicia hotel by a minor member of the US Embassy, who requested that I visit the embassy and meet with the Ambassador – he spoke his piece finished his drink and left, total time with me – ten minutes.

The next day I presented myself at the US Embassy and was escorted to the Ambassador’s office, he had only been in Lebanon for a little over 11-months. At 57 plus years old George M. Godley was an imposing figure, a man who had spent most of his productive life involved in affairs of the State. He got right down to business, From my intelligence staff I see that you have solid access to some of Lebanon’s darker secrets, which may not seem as secrets to you or anyone else in-country your information is proving to be invaluable to the State Department. Most of this information has been pried from your pieces you sent back to your paper, fortunately as any good outpost of our country we tend to snoop a bit – sorry, he mumbled and waved at the air as to dismiss them prying into my mail.

He continued, Mr Person what we like you to do is to continue your light probing and if you come across any critical names in any of the groups to pass them on, naturally we’ll make it worth your while.

I nodded okay and asked, How am I to determine who is critical and who is not?

Well you let us worry about importance. It would be to our advantage to learn of any names in leadership, is that clear.

Clear as mud, and henceforth I got my first experience in the world of espionage, gather as much information as you can and sort it all out later, also I got my first snapshot of the dirty tricks played by all – Sure why not, and what will you do for me?

Give us some info and depending on its value the payment will be made, some in currency and some in a good word or two moving its way to the proper people. If and when you obtain information out of the ordinary call the embassy public phone, ask for ‘Mac’ and someone will contact you where we contacted you the other day with instructions.

At that he got up from the couch and escorted me to his door, opening it I was met by one of the Marines and escorted to the front gate – and that was that, I was never again to see Mr Godley – I figure that they believed that one time was sufficient. At the end of the day all he really did was to drive me to figure out an alternate route for my outgoing mail, I made some inquiries and examined my options. One to use the correspondent’s packets or to simply mail them through the local post – George informed me that Lebanon’s mail service was usually picked through just as it was at the embassy, and supposed the other embassies had the same procedures as mine.

It was another week before I worked out a plan to package up my documents and post them in Cypress via a fisherman friend of Georges for a small fee, in this I mailed the usual document to the editors in Seattle and a package to my mother for safekeeping – my mind was slowly slipping into the dark world of secrets.

Chapter Five

Protection

George and one of his cousins sat in my hotel room one evening nursing a bottle of scotch while puffing on Juan Lopez Diaz Cuban cigars – talking about what they believed was going to come down. George asked me if I owned a firearm – my answer was no, he went on to say he recommended one telling me he could supply anything from an .44 Auto Mag pistol to a Beretta M-1951 9mm with all the ammo I needed including multiple clips for each, his recommendation being the Beretta with at least 5 eight round clips, being that it was less bulky and a lot less expensive than the .44 magnum.

George’s cousin Tony spoke up, You know how to shoot?

Little bit, but it has been a while, any ranges near by?

No but we’ve got plenty of open spaces up in the hills and shoot empty beer cans.

Saturday found us sitting in George’s cab winding our way up into the Lebanese mountains, a half-case of local beer laying in the back seat and me with a 2nd hand M-1951 and a box of shells, 30 minutes later Tony was throwing about a dozen beer cans onto a meadow that stretched out for about 50 yards. Looking over at me he said, Let’s see what you can do?

It took me six rounds to adjust to the pistol, hitting one can. I reloaded the clip held the pistol in both of my hands and shot 9-times (one in the breech) and bounced one can 9-times across the face