The Vienna Connection E-Book

Dick Rosano

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Former intelligence expert Darren Priest tries to distance himself from his old life, and turns to a new vocation as a wine and food writer.

He quickly discovers that some things you can’t un-volunteer for. Called to Vienna by the U.S. President, Priest undertakes a covert mission where friend quickly turns into foe.

With numerous enemies threatening his mission, can Priest figure out whom to trust – and keep the Vienna Connection a secret?

Leseprobe

THE VIENNA CONNECTION

Darren Priest Mysteries Book 1

DICK ROSANO

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Acknowledgments

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Dick Rosano

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by Cover Mint

This is a book of fiction inspired by real events. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

PRAISE FOR DICK ROSANO’S BOOKS

Dick Rosano’s books – published in English – have also been translated into three languages: Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, and continue to command attention around the world.

The Secret of Altamura: Nazi Crimes, Italian Treasure

“If you’re a fan of Italy, this book is for you…Rosano skillfully blends all three themes into one well-written, emotionally engaging narrative that moves at a good pace.” (ReadersFavorite.com)

A Death in Tuscany

“If you want to read a book that introduces you to the culture of wine making, an appreciation of the countryside of Tuscany, and a lifestyle that appreciates good food and good wine, this book excels.” (Five Stars). (Barnes & Noble)

“The book is as much a crime novel as it is an authoritative travelogue and wine tutorial, an enjoyable read for Tuscany aficionados in particular.” (Ambassador Magazine)

Hunting Truffles: A Mystery

“Hunting Truffles travels through the Piedmont region after the lucrative white truffle harvest has been stolen, the plot thickens as the bodies of truffle hunters are discovered! We can't wait for the movie!” (Bethesda Travel Magazine)

Wine Heritage: The Story of Italian-American Vintners

“Original in conception, well-researched and deftly written, this book casts a long-overdue light on a fascinating corner aspect of America’s wine history.” (The Washington Post)

CHAPTERONE

April 14

Stadtpark, Vienna

“Hey.” I heard the voice from a foggy distance. “You can’t sleep here.”

I felt a gentle kick on the sole of my shoe.

Okay, I thought, reaching up with my right hand to still the pounding in my head. I could tell that I was lying on the ground, on a grassy field, but the rest was hazy. Fuzzy images in the distance suggested trees, and a building loomed off to my right.

My eyes blinked open and I stared up at a uniformed officer. Another few blinks and I guessed from her beret and blue outfit she was from the Austrian polizei.

“Come on, get up,” she said, this time without a kick.

Obeying her command was not easy. I tried to push up with my hands but then had to roll over onto my knees to get off the ground. Balance had abandoned me, but I kept moving to show that I was complying with her order.

When I finally got to my feet, I turned toward the officer. She was my height and, even with my blurred vision, I could tell from her voice that she was young. I strained to see more clearly. Brown hair, neatly tied and kept in place under her beret, the red epaulets proof of my earlier guess that she was police. I didn’t know the system or police organization in Vienna, so I couldn’t tell her rank, but I supposed that the appearance of a single star on the epaulet meant something.

“What is your name, sir? And why were you sleeping in the Stadtpark?”

I looked at her again and tried to focus my eyes while steadying my wobbly legs.

“Have you been drinking?” she continued.

Too many questions, but I knew I should start with the first.

“Darren.” Somehow my brain couldn’t come up with my own last name. Then, “Darren…Priest. I wasn’t sleeping, I was…”

“You were asleep, and that is not allowed here. Do you have a hotel room?” she asked.

“Yes, but how did I…,” but then I stopped. I didn’t know how I had ended up in the park, asleep on the ground. From the sun, it appeared to be mid-afternoon and I had no recollection of getting here or why I was here. Still, I knew it would be a bad strategy to ask her how I got here. Sleeping is one thing; sounding intoxicated or disconnected was worse.

“I’m…I’m staying at the Marriott. Over there,” I said, pointing to the tall gray building across the road. Some details were coming clearer to me, but not the time of day, or even the day itself, or the events preceding this moment.

Slowly, snippets of memory began to refill the calendar in my brain in reverse order. I recalled having coffee and a croissant in the Marriott restaurant at breakfast and then, remembering backward, a hazy memory of walking down the corridor from my room to the second floor to the restaurant. As these details cleared from a blurry gray, other moments gathered in line behind them. I woke that morning, early as usual. I showered and dressed. The evening before was slowly coming into view, including the dinner at Figlmüller last night. The half bottle of Weissburgunder Pinot Blanc and the wiener schnitzel that was so large it overlapped the edges of the plate. There was no one sitting with me, no one to talk to. I bantered with the waiter to fill the void.

I remembered it is an uneventful meal, except for the excellent food that I had often enjoyed at Figlmüller. The waiter was pleasant, the wine satisfying. Paying close attention to detail, I could focus on the time after the dinner when I walked back to the Marriott, sipped a Single Malt Scotch at the hotel bar, then went to bed. Nothing stood out to me as indicating any impact on my ability to think or function.

“Well, you can’t sleep here,” the young officer repeated, bringing me back to the present. She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back to me again.

Something in my memory of the morning kept infiltrating my thoughts and kept me from promptly responding.

“Let’s go!” the officer said with a more commanding tone.

The slight tick in the film of my memory was about breakfast, and something seemed out of sorts. There was something that didn’t belong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Please pick up your things and return to your hotel,” she said, waving her hand at my backpack and the few items that had spilled from it onto the ground.

The face of a man came into mind. He had a sturdy build and I pictured him talking to the waitress who tended to my table at breakfast. I strained to focus on the snapshot in my memory. He was in his early fifties, maybe late-forties, white, medium height, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, tiny tattoo on the back of his wrist that was partly covered by the long sleeve of his shirt. He glanced in my direction once, then turned back to the waitress. Probably the restaurant manager.

“Now!” the police officer barked.

“Okay!” I replied with some edginess, then it hit me. “Wait!” I added, putting my hand up. The officer looked at me and grew more impatient, but I was trying to focus on the glimmer of a memory. The man’s hand touched the edge of the waitress’s tray. He looked at me again and then the waitress looked in my direction. Then the film clips streaming through my memory went blank.

The officer kept her silence but planted her fists on her hips in an obvious show of displeasure. I knew that further delays in complying with her command could end up with me being arrested or searched. And neither seemed like a good thing at the moment.

Ignoring the memory film that seemed to have stalled anyway, I knelt gently to the ground to collect my Samsung smartphone, billfold with some Euros, and my passport that had fallen out of the bag.

Standing quickly, another memory snapshot skittered across my brain. I couldn’t hold it, but the short-term recording offered a brief glimpse of the man taking the tray from the waitress while she turned toward the counter to retrieve the espresso cup. The man took the espresso from her, lowered it to the tray, and handed the tray to her. And she turned in my direction to deliver the espresso. But before she could take a step, the film stalled once again. That was all.

No, wait, that wasn’t all. Why was he holding the espresso saucer with both hands, one hand on the saucer itself and one hovering over the tiny cup of coffee?

The officer stood next to me with her hands on her hips, barely tolerating my herky-jerky response to her commands. I was working to recover my memory of breakfast, which she couldn’t possibly know, but she granted me a bit more leeway, seeing that I was not completely stable on my feet.

I felt drunk but couldn’t be. Drugged possibly. Did my breakfast have anything to do with it?

I returned to collecting my things only to realize that my laptop was gone. Phone, wallet, and money were there, but no laptop.

“Wait,” I said reflexively.

The officer was still waiting for me to act and she didn’t look happy at my further command to wait. I had uttered it more as a mental pause, not an order for her, but under the circumstances she had every reason to doubt my intention. I pulled the remaining things out of my backpack, including baseball cap, sunglasses, and two books, but there was no laptop.

“My Galaxy isn’t here,” I said.

“Your what?” she asked, stepping back toward me.

“My Galaxy. It’s a laptop. It’s not here.”

She returned to where I was crouched on the ground and stood looking at me.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the hotel?” she asked, crooking her thumb toward the Marriott.

“Yes,” I said, “well, no. I mean I’m not sure.” I stopped, fearing my recitation of mostly forgotten facts could get me into even hotter water.

She spun a little to the left and then to the right, hands still on her hips, and looked back at me after surveying of the area.

“I don’t see anything here,” was her conclusion.

Still kneeling, I scanned the ground around me. A few dozen people were scattered about, sitting on the grass, but they were all spread out, so the area around me was clear of bodies. I, too, found no sign of my missing tablet. Hoisting myself to my feet, carefully so as not to stumble, I turned to the officer. My vision was clearing, and I could now see that she had brown eyes to match her hair, minimalist makeup, and pale red lipstick.

And a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol and pepper spray strapped to her belt.

“It’s not here,” I said quietly.

“Do you think someone stole it while you were sleeping?”

“I wasn’t slee…” I began but caught myself. “Yes, possibly.”

“What was on it? And why didn’t they take your Euros and phone, too?”

I was already getting tired of her asking multiple questions at once.

“It had my files, my records…”

“What kind of records? Personal or business?”

With the return of my vision came a return of my wits, so I decided not to answer that question.

“Just things.” I opted for misdirection.

Sensing my reluctance to cooperate, she turned once again to leave, then paused.

“Do you want me to look around some more?” she asked.

I hesitated. I wanted her help, but if the polizei were the ones to find my computer they might want to review its contents. I was sure I didn’t want them to ask any questions about the files that I had there.

“No, thanks,” I replied, and, just as quickly, I realized that my response was implausible and would raise suspicion. As I feared, my reply turned her back onto the search rather than sending her away.

“Mr. Priest,” she said, looking at me with suspicion. “I am Inspector Weber. I will help you find your computer.”

I rose to my feet and began walking from my spot in a spiral outward in ever greater arcs. Weber had a more direct style. She began from the point where she found me and walked in a straight line, sweeping her gaze left and right to cover a funnel-shaped sector out from the starting point. Finding nothing, she returned to point of origin, turned to another compass point, and repeated the straight line in another direction. She went about thirty yards out in each direction before returning, piecing together these pie slices of the three-hundred-and-sixty degrees until she had scanned the area, with me wandering in circles past her.

The area was mostly mown grass, but there were some small shrubs, so each of us bent down and looked underneath the low branches and into the tall weeds that had clustered at their base.

After about twenty minutes, Weber stood facing me.

“There’s nothing here. Perhaps you left it in your hotel room,” she said again.

“No, I didn’t.” This time I was a bit more emphatic, certain that I had not left the computer in the hotel or unprotected during an impromptu nap in a public park, for that matter. This last thought left me confused and unnerved.

Of course, I was equally certain that I wouldn’t allow myself to be drugged in public.

“I encourage you to return to the Marriott,” she advised. “And when you do, you should rest, and maybe take something to recover from your hangover.”

I felt like shit, but I had no reason to think I was hungover.

“Here’s my card.” She handed me a business card with Bundespolizei printed at the top and a symbol of the organization. Below it, centered, was her name, Alana Weber, and beneath that her rank, Inspektor.

“Call me if you decide to file a report, Mr. Priest.”

CHAPTERTWO

April 14

Champions Bar

After Weber left, I glanced around the area again, found nothing, and resigned myself to the fact that my laptop had been stolen. I kept important files there, but none that would harm me or assist the thief. Still, I had compiled information that I needed, particularly in the work I had planned for this visit to Vienna. Fortunately, my obsession with information also drove me to maintain copies, in this case on a flash drive that I always carried with me. Slipping my hand into my right pants pocket, I found it there, attached to the long lanyard that I always kept with it.

I zipped the backpack shut and slung it over my shoulder, then turned toward Parkring, the main avenue that hugs the contour of Vienna’s old city on this side. At the pedestrian light on the curb, I stood for a moment until the light switched to green, then I crossed the street with the joggers, walkers, and pets and walked directly up to the entrance of the Marriott Parkring.

Just as I anticipated, the laptop was not in my hotel room, nor in the restaurant. I checked with the manager. The waitress was off shift by the time I returned in late afternoon and she didn’t recall anyone finding a small computer, or a man fitting the description I provided.

I scanned the room, checking the faces of the wait staff on shift at that time to see if I could find the man I remembered from the morning. Then I approached the manager on duty.

“I’m looking for a man, sturdy build, slightly graying hair, maybe a manager or something?” I asked.

“When were you here?”

“At breakfast.”

“About how old was he?” the manager asked.

“Maybe fifty, give or take a few years.”

“Well, no, we don’t have a manager who fits that description. In fact, the manager on the breakfast shift is a woman.”

“Could he have been a waiter?” I asked.

“No. As you can see, the servers here are all younger than you describe. Like the waiters in your restaurants in America. There is no one here of the age you describe.”

I looked at the manager. He was older than his wait staff crew, but I wasn’t looking for him.

Anticipating my question, he said, “I was the manager on shift this morning. Still here, I regret to say, but there was no one forty-something with gray hair working today.”

“Could he be a guest?” I asked.

“Oh, but of course, Mr. Priest. We have many guests. That would be very difficult to pin down, sir.”

I made a note to return the following morning hoping to find a guest who fit the hazy memory I had. But in the meantime I wanted to return to the reason why I was in Vienna.

After returning to my room, I pulled Inspector Weber’s business card from my wallet and dialed the number.

“Anything?” I asked.

“No, nothing,” she said curtly.

“Okay,” I replied with resignation. It was a natural impulse to want to follow up on my loss, so I didn’t worry about Weber reading anything into my call. I also felt that showing interest in the computer and not trying to avoid contact could have a positive impact on my relationship with the police. On the other hand, I realized that showing too much worry about the missing files might generate renewed curiosity on their part.

I returned to Stadtpark as the sun was dipping toward the roofs of the buildings. This was a popular public park, just across the Parkring from the Marriott, and dozens of people still walked down the paths or were sitting on the lawn. I thought perhaps I could talk to someone who might have seen something earlier in the day, something that might jog my memory. Wandering throughout the area where I had been a few hours before, I found a couple of young women sharing a blanket, and I was quite certain they had been there earlier. I approached and introduced myself.

“Excuse me. I am looking for something. My name is Darren Priest and I was here this afternoon.”

One of the women giggled at that, telling me that she remembered me sleeping, and being awakened by the police.

“Yes, I know,” said the other woman. They were sitting up but leaning closely together in an intimate embrace.

“Did you see anyone with me?” I asked.

“You mean, other than the polizei?” she asked amused.

“Yes.”

“No, no one,” her partner replied.

“How about before the police officer arrived?” I persisted.

They both shook their heads.

I thanked them and moved on, keeping my eyes on the ground for any clues but also surveying the area to see if I recognized anyone else. No luck. Realizing that it was getting on six o’clock, I left the park by the winding sidewalk on which I had entered the area, crossed the busy divided street of Parkring, and re-entered the glittering lobby of the Marriott.

The doorman nodded a pleasant “Gutentag” as I passed by. He was helping new arrivals at the check-in desk. I swiped my keycard and pressed “8” for the concierge level. The evening snacks and wine would be served by this hour and I thought I’d get a glass of the local Zweigelt to sip in my room while I dressed for dinner.

The wine tasting that served as the cover for my visit was scheduled for the next evening, so I would spend tonight at Cantinetta Antinori, a restaurant owned by the Antinori wine family. After discovering the establishment on my first visit to the city a few years back, I had become a regular customer, so much so that I knew the layout and selection of dishes, and the staff knew me. Not only were the wines excellent – as would be expected from Piero Antinori and his wine empire – but the menu was truly Italian and unfailingly exceptional.

Back in my room, I changed from my short-sleeved shirt and jeans into a button-down dress shirt – sans tie – and slacks. The Zweigelt was a very pleasurable wine, not in a style that one would expect from Italy, France, or Spain, but true to the grape and one of Austria’s flagship wines. I sipped at the glass and listened to the short bursts of news on CNN as I roamed around my suite getting ready for dinner.

I let my mind wander to the wine tasting that I would attend the next evening, allowing myself to be distracted from thoughts of the lost laptop. I am a columnist for The Wine Review, a wine magazine in the U.S. that had gained enough respect internationally that its ratings could decide the fate of new wine releases around the world. My columns focused on European wines although I maintained a strong interest in the wines of America’s west coast too.

Tomorrow’s tasting was part trade event and part celebration, but all Italian. The writers would be allowed in first to sample the wines and make their notes, catching short conversations with the winemakers in attendance, then to be followed by a small and select audience of consumers. This would not be the usual cattle rush that occurred so often in the States, where a purchased ticket would be all that was necessary for the wine-thirsty curious to gain entrance. This small, chosen group of consumers would no doubt include local luminaries and politicos – not to mention people with deep pockets. Special in their way, but not of much interest to me. I planned to attend the trade part, get my notes, enjoy the wines, and talk to the industry reps. I would excuse myself then, before the doors opened to the deep-pocketed buyers.

But that was still another day off. Jetlag had never been much of an issue for me, but I wanted my senses to be fully functioning to cover the event for The Wine Review, so another day would be a welcome respite. Downing the last sip of Zweigelt, I made a quick survey of everything on the table and nightstand to memorize their positions. The clock on the nightstand was perched at a forty-five degree angle with respect to the bed, my small pile of note papers were left in practiced disarray, the pen straddling the edge of the pile, and the wine glass was placed just three inches from the edge of the counter. I swung the door next to the minibar open to reach the room safe inside, then set the unlocked door ajar at exactly one inch.

This penchant for placement was necessary in my life. Whenever I traveled, I was careful about my private space and wanted to be sure to notice if anything had been disturbed. Satisfied with the mental pictures I had of anything that might be moved in my absence, I turned toward the door and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle before heading down the hallway.

It was too early for dinner so after riding the elevator to the lobby, I descended the sweeping staircase, crossed the wide expanse, and settled onto a barstool in Champions, the sports bar that fronted the street. There was a soccer game on the television, pitting teams in the UEFA Champions League, which I thought might serve as a distraction from thoughts about my assignment and my lost computer.

The distraction didn’t work. My mind kept mulling over the events of the morning – at least as far as I could remember them before being kicked awake by Inspector Weber. Not a bad vision to wake up to but the loss of my computer raised the hair on my neck. I was here in Vienna with a single purpose and I had to keep my purpose concealed. Maintaining a low profile and keeping off the authorities’ radar would help too. Losing track of an essential tool like the laptop or becoming too well known to the local authorities could expose me to danger and interfere with my mission.

Still, I wondered whether the loss of the computer was something other than a random theft. Perhaps my movements had already attracted unwanted attention and I had been drugged and then victimized in retaliation. It wasn’t what I was expecting but it couldn’t be completely discounted either.

Thinking through the events of the last two days, my biological fitness in the morning, and other facts convinced me that I had been drugged, probably via the espresso at breakfast. I knew that even if I found the waitress, she would not be able to tell me anything and I doubted that she was part of the plot. She had been taken advantage of by the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, and I had been his victim.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“A Stiegl,” I replied, indicating the local beer I had come to appreciate on my visits to Austria. He pulled a cold glass from the freezer below the bar, tipped it at an angle below the dispenser, and pulled the long, white handle to fill the glass with what they called the “Salzburg beer.”

While I sipped from the tall frosty glass, I recounted what I knew and what I remembered. In my line of work, discrete movements and constant awareness of surroundings were like life insurance. Attention to detail, especially about your surroundings could be the difference between surviving and dying. I would not have fallen asleep in a public place like the Stadtpark without being induced. But my attention to detail had failed me at the breakfast table. If my memory could recall the man interfering in the service of the espresso, why hadn’t my internal alarm gone off? I knew that I couldn’t resolve that glitch in my training but made a note to consider it at another time.

A roar from the soccer match’s spectators rose from the speakers on the sides of the television and drew my attention away from my thoughts. FC Zurich had just slipped the ball past a sprawling goalie on the Bayern side, chalking a one-nil score in the early minutes of the match.

My cover should still be intact, I thought. But if I was singled out for drugging and theft, how could it not be related somehow to my mission, and possibly to my dual identities?

The beer went down well, though I sipped it slowly.

“Another?” the bartender asked after I finished the glass.

“No. Thanks. Gotta go. Check?”

I planned to have wine at dinner and – knowing the lengthy repast that I planned at the Cantinetta – there would be wine, so I didn’t want to overindulge with beer beforehand.

The bartender handed me the little paper slip from the empty mug on the bar and I folded out a few Euros to pay for the drink and leave a tip. I couldn’t completely drop my American training, so I probably left a bigger tip than was necessary here in Europe. But, then again, he didn’t seem to mind.

Slipping off the barstool, I left Champions through the street-side door, turned right, and headed off on a familiar path on Weihburggasse toward the main part of town.

CHAPTERTHREE

Five Weeks Earlier

Washington, D.C.

“Sit down,” he said.

According to the sign on the office door, “he” was Dr. Matthew Bordrick, but I knew nothing about him and still couldn’t piece together why I was called here for the interview. We were in a nondescript office building in Washington, on a block just steps from the Old Executive Office Building.

“Darren Priest, right?” Bordrick began.

I nodded.

“May I call you Armando?” he said as he closed the door to the office. I thought it might be pointless to argue that I was actually Darren Priest, but I remained silent.

Bordrick circled back around his desk and lowered himself into the chair slowly. He opened a folder and leaned in to read from it.

“Armando Listrani. Born July 25, 1985. Parents Bernardo Listrani and Alice Kraft Listrani.” He paused and looked up at me, then returned to the folder.

“Served as a U.S. Army intelligence officer from 2008 to 2012 with tours of duty in Syria, Afghanistan, and…” and he paused to peer at me over his reading glasses, “…and ‘other assignments not on the official record.’ What does that mean Armando? Not on the official record?”

It seemed like the best answer was just to shrug, but I did so without looking away from Bordrick.

“’Not on the official record,’” Bordrick repeated. “But this is your Top Secret folder. What could not be on this official record?”

Bordrick reached below the top sheet of paper to retrieve another sheet from the bottom of the stack.

“Operation Best Guess,” he said with careful enunciation. “Code Word project with the most limited access of any operation I have ever seen. What does Best Guess mean, Mr. Listrani? Or Priest, if you prefer.”

If he was reading from a paper that contained the name of the mission Best Guess, he already knew about my military service and my personal life before it. But he didn’t really know what we did, what we could do. Only the squad and Sergeant Randal knew. Very possibly some others at very high levels. But until this moment, I had not seen my own secret file and didn’t know how much it contained – or who else might have read it.

“There were six of you,” he continued, reading from the paper. “You interrogated prisoners. Sometimes interrogated our own guys,” he said, occasionally referring to the notes on the page. “Three remain, including yourself, Pelman, and Kramer. Talkin, Brothers, and Ramon are gone.” Then he unceremoniously dropped the folder on the desk, looked at me and said, “All three suicides.”

With a slight sneer, he asked, “Best Guess, Armando. Does that mean you were famous for making guesses?”

“We didn’t guess,” I responded, my voice a mix of pride in my work and contempt for this doctor, whatever his specialty was. “We were chosen because we could glean the truth from what the target was telling us.”

“You mean you knew what he was thinking? That’s ridiculous. You can’t read minds.”

“We didn’t read minds.” I crossed my right leg over my left without breaking eye contact with Bordrick. “I said we could tell when they were lying.”

“And how did you do that?”

After all this time it was still hard for me to distill all the factors that went into the Best Guess team’s conclusions. Body language, facial expression, a subtle rise in temperature of the target that caused his skin color to take on a tinge of pink. The faintest movement of his eyeball, the tightening of certain muscles around his eyes, nose, or mouth. The cadence of the target’s words was easy to interpret; the muscular twitches of his exposed forearms were more complicated and elusive.

Sergeant Randal drilled us not to think. He raged at us when we tried to understand what was happening instead of unconsciously reacting to the signals.

“If you think about it,” he bellowed, “you’ll lose it. It’s got to be below your skin, outside your mind, unthinking reaction to a host of non-verbal signals. Signals that our early human ancestors were experts at reading because they had to interpret every signal in their environment, signals they got from other animals competing for the environment’s limited resources. Even signals from members of other human tribes.”

Randal recited this history with a strong sense of pride in what early hominids were capable of, as if he identified more closely with them than he did with his contemporaries. And he often ended with a disappointing conclusion about where we had turned away from the path.

“But Homo sapiens lost the ability to read such things,” he said, “when we thought we had developed a better brain.”

Randal always scoffed at this last point. He was brilliant and had, as far as I could tell, an encyclopedic memory of his favorite hobbies – ontogenesis and phylogenesis – how from the earliest stages of embryonic development – ontogenesis – the human body nearly mirrored the developmental stages of human evolution – phylogenesis.