For my pal Spot: IV. Asheville, April 2013 Against the back wall of the Pub off the lobby of the Hotel at Biltmore Estate, just up the mountain from downtown Asheville, Brigadier Cameron sat at the table in a darkish booth, sipping on a sweet iced tea with a wedge of lemon. It was just past 3 pm, too late for all but the latest of lunches and too early for all but the hardest of drinkers. As a consequence he had the place to himself, except for the bartender who was a friend, the waitress who was also, and the single epically-hard drinker who was drooling on the bar. This was all by design, because he had a meeting and needed things quiet, and Mike and Candace could be counted on to take care of the drunk. The guy he was meeting would be late in another minute or two, so maybe it wasnt going to matter... But then a guy walked in. Cameron couldnt see him well through the gloom. The guy walked up to the bar, a little tentative, looking around a bit himself. Mike sauntered up and asked if he wanted a table or a drink, and the guy replied a beer would be good, if you have a solid IPA, but Im supposed to be meeting someone and Im almost late. Is there... Good old Mike, he was a very solid guy. He held up a hand, and winked at the guy at the bar, then thumbed over his shoulder in Camerons direction. The guy gave a cheerful Thanks and started to move. As he did, Cameron was suddenly sure of a few things. First, he should have a talk with Mike, since it probably wasnt all that cool to imply that Cameron was the author of clandestine meetings in the Pub. Second, this guy was bigger than he expected...not tall, but broad and athletic, and he moved like he could take care of himself. Third, that maybe he should get out his gun, just in case this might have been a mistake and turned bad in a hurry. He reached to the small of his back with his right hand and drew the Glock, then transferred it under the table to his left, which he rested on the bench seat next to him as he watched the guy approach. He passed directly under one of the dim lights when he was 15 feet away, and Cameron relaxed. The guy was white and as bald as an egg. The guy he was expecting. Hed taken a long time to find. Cameron was looking for not only a particular skill set, but also a pretty unique experience profile and a guy of the right age with some indication of the right ambitions. Air Force guy, hed decided, Lt Colonel, and a back-seater in an F15E if one could be had, maybe a bomber if not, but in that case a B-1 guy for the speed and the mission, not B-52s. A guy whod seen the elephant over Iraq and Afghanistan since 911. Degree in something besides engineering, and whod done something in his Service career that was out of the box for a flyer. Hard to find all that, and itd taken some manual paper searching to come up with this one, because the Air Forces electronic records werent set up for the kind of fuzzy search he had to do. This one might just be the only one. Cameron already knew just about everything that could be known about Lt Col Thorssen as he reached the table. Now it was all about the personality and the delivery. Really bald as an egg and looking freshly shaved to boot, Eric Thorssen smiled and stuck out his hand, opening with You must be Mr. Cameron. Im Eric Thorssen. The beer was in his left hand with a perfect head of foam on top. The gun was now an embarrassment, so Cameron could only half stand and shake hands while he kept the Glock concealed under the table. Yeah, Im Paul Cameron, nice to meet you and welcome to Asheville. Thanks for coming, please have a seat. He noticed that Thorssens eyes strayed a quick look toward his concealed left hand, and the left eyebrow lifted slightly, then both eyes stared hard directly into Camerons own for just an instant, and then returned to normal as the man sat. Cameron thought Huh? Interesting already. Thorssen took a long drink of his beer, and probably unconsciously, licked the foam off his upper lip with his eyes closed for just a single second, savoring the flavor. Cameron decided this was a good initial sign. “You look like a man who appreciates a good beer, Mr. Thorssen,” he said, with a genuine smile. “Eric, will do, Mr. Cameron, or…you look like you may have served yourself, sir,” he observed, taking in the posture, the haircut, the gaze. “What did you do, before you started recruiting for this little venture, if you don’t mind my asking?” Cameron added another point in Thorssen’s favor , he was liking this guy already. Quick, observant, right to the point. “Air Force, F-15Cs originally, but I’ve done a lot non-flying stuff for the last 13 years. Mostly spending the taxpayers’ money like water, buying airplanes or putting new stuff on the ones we have.” “Hah!” Thorssen exclaimed. “I figured you looked like an Eagle guy, if you were Air Force at all. Some guys you can tell, you know, from the eyes? Anyway, I go by “Spot,” or Eric. And it is a good beer, these guys have a sharp brew master lurking around here somewhere.” He was brimming with enthusiasm, picked up the bar menu on the table. “And look at that, they even use the stuff in the beef pastie. Too bad it’s late for lunch and early for dinner, this would be a real treat.” “Isn’t that the truth,” Cameron agreed. Beef pastie, shepherd’s pie, or an English beef and onion pie, any such incarnation, was one of his favorite heavy lunches, or any other meal for that matter. “I do admire a man who enjoys food and drink, err, Spot.” He was trying to think of how to get around to the point without revealing too much. “So, you’re retiring soon? When will you be available, and what would you most like to do in your second career?” “My official retirement date is about 45 days from now, Mr. Cameron.” He paused, an assessing glance at Cameron again. “Let me ask you something,” he changed tacks. “When you were thinking about making the change, did you ever get the feeling you wanted to do something utterly different from your whole Air Force thing? I mean, nothing to do with Defense or the Government? Just go do something completely different?” Cameron laughed out loud. “Spot, you have no idea. Or maybe you do. What are you thinking?” Thorssen chuckled. “Well, you may think this is crazy, but to me, the perfect thing would be a combination brew-pub and bike shop.” He held up his hand…”I know, crazy combination, and it probably is crazy. Did I mention I’m a bit of a tri-athlete? Well, I am, and I love bikes almost as much as I love beer. My great, unrequited ambition is “Spot’s Pub and Pedals” or “Beer and Bikes” or some such thing. Two passions, one establishment. Top end of everything, maybe on a place big enough with some bike paths on it, or at least close so you can ride right out of the shop, sober, and come back and tell the tale over an IPA as good as this one. Brewed by me, of course.” His right hand automatically lifted the beer glass for another swig. “But, I’m also a realist. I’ll probably end up as consultant, working for the Air Force or one of the other Services, still trying to figure out ways to more efficiently kill the enemies of my country. Unless of course you have a better idea, which God send, since that’s what we’re here for.” Again the eyebrow went up, and Cameron had decided that Thorssen was a keeper. “As it turns out, I do, and your idea isn’t really any crazier than mine, although until a year ago I was pretty sure mine was so wacky that nobody’d take it seriously. It turns out my nutty perfect second career is to build a castle on a hill, and run it as a high-end bed-and-breakfast, boutique hotel sort of place. Wedding destination, corporate off-site meetings venue, spectacular dinner parties for the well-to-do, maybe the odd renaissance festival on the grounds once a year or so. Haven’t thought too much about that last part. I’ve been thinking a bit about a vineyard and winery, too, just to add a little class to the thing, another angle to the brand of the place. Hmmm…I hadn’t thought of beer, though. Have you looked into what it would cost to, uhhh, equip such a brew-pub operation? Not counting the building and all?” “Spot” Thorssen did something interesting then. Both eyebrows went up, and he brought his hands together, fingertips up and just touching, and fluttered them back and forth in a distinctly conspiratorial way, big smile on his face. “Ah, but I have. What kind of nutty, send you straight to bankruptcy business idea would it be if I hadn’t tried to figure out what it’d cost to lose every dime I ever earned?” he asked. “The brewing equipment, to make maybe 3 different beers in a marketable quantity, would run about two hundred thousand dollars, all set up. That includes bottling equipment. No cans, I hate beer in cans. For that setup we’d need a building with about 5000 square feet, preferably on 2 levels, with the bike stuff on the ground floor, brewing stuff too, behind big glass windows, and bar and kitchen above. Not a full kitchen mind you, just a few odds and ends to make it pubbish, maybe a beef pie and some other munchies to wash down with a good beer after a long bike ride. How big is this place where you’re building the, umm, “castle” is it? I assume you ARE building it? Maybe somewhere close by?” “Yep,” said Cameron. “A castle, stone on stone. It’s roughly…” he pointed back over Thorssen’s shoulder…10 miles that way, southwest of Asheville, on top of a ridgeline about 300 feet high. On a good day, from the top of the, umm, “wall”, you’ll be able to see the roof of this hotel, if not of Biltmore House itself. It sits on just over 200 acres, mostly flat on the ridgetop but it includes the slopes of the ridge either side. I figure there are probably 30 acres of gentle slopes that face South that can be put in vines for the vineyard, eventually. I really hadn’t thought about beer, though. How are you with wine?” “Oh, I love wine. With a big slab of dead cow, either grilled or prepared with some decadent Frog-Frenchy sauce, there’s nothing to compare to a nice, big red wine. I’m partial to Zinfandels, but a truly enormous Cabernet will never go amiss, either. Now with fish, or even a nice fettuccini carbonara, you can’t beat a halb-trocken Reisling.” He paused. “That’s German for “half sweet”, Mr Cameron. A nice Reisling? Mosel River?” The eyebrow was up again, questioning. Cameron came back from his daydream about that big steak, a rich green peppercorn sauce, and a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon to wash it down with. “Damn. Umm, yes, the Reisling, and I’ve toured the Mosel valley, like most F-15 guys my age from back in the Cold War days. Bitburg. Those were good days…” He paused, thinking, making up his mind. The guy was sharp, very sharp, probably more perfect than he had a right to ever have expected to find. Loved food, sounded like he could cook it, too. And the beer angle was a good, solid idea, even if not right away: the investment was probably out of his reach for another year or two until they started generating some revenue from the business. But Spot seemed to have just the right ambition, and an aptitude he could never have really hoped for in an Air Force guy. He knew all about that career, so he didn’t need to ask if he could do “the other thing”, which Cameron wasn’t ready to dive into just yet anyway. He looked at Thorssen. “One last question, Spot. Do you do any, err, shooting, at all?” The eyebrow went up again. “Only professionally, not so much as a hobby lately. I’ve shot expert with the issue- Beretta, what, 3 or 4 times I’d guess. I own a Glock .40 caliber, which is a pretty hot gun and I don’t much care for it, been in the safe at home for years. Also have a .50 caliber Hawken rifle, and a few odds and ends from my grandfather. None of them’s seen the light of day in quite a while. Are you expecting to have to defend this castle or something?” Cameron thought that was too close to the mark, this guy was no slouch. But he was funny. “No, no, just wondering about hobbies, that’s all. I keep having wild ideas about different things to bump up revenue on the establishment without upping the investment too much right away.” He could tell Spot didn’t entirely buy this, but, hell, he wanted sharp guys. He’d get him briefed soon enough anyway. “OK, Mr Thorssen, Spot. I think you’re exactly what I’m looking for. How’d you like to be the Property Manager for Dunclarrick Castle? That’s the current working name, anyway, until we think of something better. Your job is running the hotel, food, beverage, basically you’re the Operations Officer. By the way, we already have a sommelier, young kid out of New York state with a really good wine background, he’ll work for you. It pays right at what you make now as a Lieutenant Colonel, plus bonuses and some profit sharing and some other…odds and ends we’ll discuss once you sign up. Twenty-five days of vacation a year, weekends don’t count, benefits, 401K, the whole thing. Are you in?” “Probably,” Spot said. “Two questions first, by way of clarifying whether you’ve got the legs to go the distance. First, how much have you got invested in this place? Second, what are the chances we can expand to the brew-and-bike shop at some point?” There was a glint in his eye that Cameron liked. Somewhat predatory. Perfect. Cameron said, “We’ll be up and running, all in, for about $2 million when it’s done, which should be about 8 months from now. Half in cash, half covered by a combination of some investors and a loan. Market research says we can easily keep the 12 guest rooms at 50% capacity year round, with big peaks in summer for weddings, golf, and tourism, and steadily full in the Winter if the snow’s good—there’s skiing within about 30 minutes in decent years. The business plan says the operation will be debt free in about 3 years, and the investors have deep pockets anyway. We’ll go the distance. Good question, though.” He thought. “The brew pub isn’t in the plan, obviously, since you just brought me that genius idea. No kidding, I think it’s brilliant. Let’s say wait and see? I like it, but given your first question, I’m guessing you’d rather be conservative than run out of cash trying to do everything at once?” “Amen to that,” Thorssen replied. “I’m new to business, and I can wait, let’s see where that goes. I probably can invest some of my own money if and when you’re ready, if you don’t mind another investor. Count me in…Colonel, is it?” This with one eye half closed, almost like a pirate staring sideways. Cameron squirmed. “What do I do with that?” he asked himself. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a little awkward. Actually it’s Brigadier. But around here, the folks call me “Colonel” just so we don’t sound too uppity for the neighborhood or the neighbors. We want the business to attract the right kind of attention, but, ummm, I don’t personally want to attract what a General might. I’ll explain more later when we can talk privately.” “Fine, Colonel. I’m in. When do I start?” “You decide. I need the help managing the project anyway, and I think you’ll have ideas that we can still work in that will help get things up and running fast, so as soon as you’re ready and retired, you may present yourself. Here’s a card with the address,” he handed it across the table. “I’d also like you to meet me in the DC area sometime in the next 3 weeks if you don’t mind…some people I need you to meet and some paperwork to do. I’ll call you to arrange it. Any problems with your current boss on that front?” “No, shouldn’t be. He’s a good guy. You have my numbers on the resume, just give me a week’s notice so I can set it up and get up to DC.” “Great,” Cameron said. “What are you up to this evening? Flying home right away, or staying over?” “Staying over, I figure I can find a steak somewhere and head back tomorrow.” “Well, in that case, why not come up to the site with me and take a look around, we can find the steak together afterward. My wife’s not in town this week—we don’t have much in the way of creature comforts up there just yet. But I’m interested in your reaction. Whattya say?” “Colonel, I was hoping you’d ask!’ “OK, I need to make a short confidential call…sorry about that, I’ll explain later…just give me a few, maybe wait over by the bar, and we’ll go in my truck when I’m done?” “Yep.” Thorssen got up and stepped over to the far side of the bar, and started a chat with Mike about the IPA and what other beers they were brewing in the Pub this year. Cameron put his gun away, finally, and dug out his phone. He selected a number from the “Favorites” screen and dialed. Two rings, and an answering service picked up, but he knew that. This was a cutout number, he would leave a message, and after he’d hung up, the message would bounce to several other phones, before it ended up somewhere in the bowels of CIA headquarters at Langley. Shortly after that, the text would appear as an email in the DDO’s office, and be read by Randy Anderson, the Deputy Director of Operations. “This is Phoenix. I’ve picked the Operations Lead, same guy we discussed earlier this week. Perfect, actually. I need a favor though. Let’s see if we can keep him on active duty as a Lieutenant Colonel for another 3 years at least, or whatever you can work out, full pay and all, and I’ll also pay him separately from the, uhhh...budget. I need him to make some money for an investment in the long term future of the enterprise.” He paused. “You’ll like the beer, boss.” He hung up. The Old Man liked beer, and he appreciated a little humor, too.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 00:01:52 +0000
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