Cutting Edge

trousers, and western boots. Under his arm was a black portfolio briefcase. “Sorry if I ran a little late, almost got stuck a couple times…”

“The drive can be tedious. I saw your difficulty coming up.” Kuhl let him enter. “You must be Mr. Anagkazo.”

The man stood inside the entrance and held out a hand.

“John’s fine,” he said. “A lot of people maul the second name, and I’ve had more than a few of them tell me I should change it to something easier to remember. For business’s sake. But the line I always come back with is that we’ve had it in the family a while.”

Kuhl slipped a smile onto his face.

“It is Greek, yes?”

“You got it. My great-grandparents came over from Corinth.”

“A magnificent city.”

“So I hear,” Anagkazo replied. “I’m kind of embarrassed to say I’ve never made the trip. All kinds of relatives there I’d love to meet, but it’s always one thing or another keeps me tied down.” He glanced into the living room. “You’re a professional photographer, right? Bet you get around some.”

Kuhl looked at him. He had deliberately placed his camera on a mission bench against the wall — not the digital, but a 35-mm Nikon. Beside it in a deliberate clutter were accessory cases, a light meter, a folded tripod, and scattered rolls of Kodak film.

“Some,” he said after a moment.

The visitor angled his head back toward his parked van. A second man had exited and was striding around its right side.

“That’s Greg Clayton, my best trial helper,” Anagkazo said. “It’ll take him about five, ten minutes to get suited and ready for the demo.” He hefted his portfolio case. “Meanwhile, we probably should sit down, go over a few things. I’ll show you the pedigrees and trial certifications, answer whatever questions you have about my program.”

A pause. Then Kuhl said, “I’ve owned Schutzhund trained dogs before. My assistant made that clear in your conversations, did he not?”

“He did. Well, generally—”

Tired of the man, wishing him gone, Kuhl remembered these banalities of interaction were woven into the fabric of his camouflage veil. “A Rottweiler and a German shepherd — at different times,” he said. “Please, though, have a seat.”

Anagkazo stepped through the room, lowered himself into a rustic oak couch, and regarded the camera gear again. He seemed intrigued.

“Here to shoot anything special?” he said, unzipping his case. “If you don’t mind my being curious.”

Kuhl looked at his visitor from an armchair opposite him.

“No, not in the least.” He smiled. “I’m working on a book to be published in Europe. A pictorial record of my modern-day journey over the Royal Road.”

“El Camino Reaal, sure. Connects the old mission chain from San Diego to Frisco,” Anagkazo said. “I guess you’d find most of those settlements along Route one oh one. Or near it. There are maybe twenty altogether, that right?”

“Twenty-one.”

Anagkazo nodded, his brow creasing with interest.

“You know, I’ve heard San Antonio de Padua’s something else,” he said. “It’s way out past my breeding farm in the middle of nowhere. A hassle to reach because you’ve got to take a twisty local road, G-sixteen, leads you through the mountains. But seeing it must give you an idea how rough life must’ve been for those original Spanish priests.”

“Yes,” Kuhl said. “I’d planned on making the drive.”

“Just don’t forget to pack lunch and a coffee Thermos,” Anagkazo said. “Also better make sure you have loads of identification. There’s an army base, Fort Hunter Liggett, in the Ventana backcountry. Government land covers maybe a hundred seventy thousand acres, believe it or not. Most of it’s plain wild. The base itself was deactivated almost ten years ago, but they still use it for military reserve and National Guard drills. There are tanks, choppers, fire ranges, ammo dumps. I hear they conduct some special-op training, too, though they keep that part sort of hush-hush.” He produced a pocket folder embossed with his company’s name from the briefcase on his lap. “The reason I say to bring your ID is that the mission happens to be smack in the middle of a valley on the base’s land. You actually need to drive through a checkpoint to visit it, and security’s gotten tighter nowadays. Like I told you, it can be a challenge.”

Kuhl had reason to be amused.

“But worthwhile, I think,” he said. He took the pocket folder from Anagkazo, opened it, and hastily riffled through the thin stacks of clipped-together documents in its sleeve. “All the paperwork is in here?”

“Pedigree records, award certificates, and point breakdowns for every phase of training. Everything signed and sealed by Schutzhund master officials,” Anagkazo said. “I included our owner’s information packet and guarantees of course—”

“The dogs have Level-Three titles?”

“And other special ones besides,” Anagkazo said. “You’re getting really terrific animals. Lido, Sorge, and Arek. They’re littermates, pure-black shepherd males from west German working lines. The dogs have to be a minimum of twenty months old to qualify for Level-Three certification, and I spent an extra four months training them for advanced titles in protection and tracking. You won’t find too many around that have earned the trial scores they did.” He shrugged. “But I should show and not tell. Greg must be set by now, and you’re probably anxious to meet your new best friends for yourself.”

Kuhl looked at him.

“Yes,” he said. “Very much so.”

They rose and went toward the door.

On the grass about thirty feet from the cabin, Anagkazo’s helper had gotten the three coal-black German shepherds out through the van’s side panel. A broad, hulking man who stood well over six feet tall, he waited beside it holding them on a leather multiple-dog leash clipped to their steel choke collars. Motionless, they sat side by side at his heel.

Kuhl studied Clayton’s oversize flannel shirt and baggy coveralls, noted the odd bunching over his arms, legs and chest, and realized his huge appearance was due in some measure to concealed body padding.

Anagkazo turned to Kuhl outside the cabin door. “Your assistant told me you’d be interested in protection,” he said. “Alone up here on the mountain, that’s a sensible requirement. Having owned Schutzhunds before, you’re probably familiar with what I’m about to say, but some people don’t appreciate that effective guard work goes with obedience and control”—he interlocked two fingers—“like this. You can’t separate them. Over-aggressiveness is considered a flaw either in a dog’s inbred disposition or trained behavior. It shouldn’t display any aggression unless ordered. They’re protection dogs, not guard dogs in the ordinary sense… they only do what their owner tells them, won’t attack anyone without his direct command.”

Kuhl gave him a silent nod.

“We’re going to demonstrate how those important qualities I mentioned combine in a simulated protective engagement,” Anagkazo said. “The reason Greg’s wearing a hidden bite suit, and not the ordinary kind that would fit outside his regular clothes, is because an intruder ’s going to be dressed in regular clothes. We want to be sure our dogs will perform under realistic conditions. It’s part of the extra training I mentioned before, and not even necessary for Level-Three certification.” He paused. “Don’t be disturbed when Greg brings out his pistol. It’s a Bruni practice gun… looks and sounds like the real thing, but chambered for firing blanks.”

Kuhl smiled at him. “Thank you for the warning,” he said.

Anagkazo waved to his helper as a signal to get started. Let off the leash, the dogs remained heeled in position at Clayton’s side until Anagkazo called out to them. Then they sprang onto all fours and came rushing over to him at once like a midnight wind.

“Sit,” he said in a firm voice.

The shepherds obeyed without hesitation. Kuhl studied them. They were truly impressive: wide-boned, thick-