Don't Order Dog (11 page)

“How in feckin’ hell did you know there was a safe in there?” Dublin asked, dumbfounded.

“I’m going out for a while,” he replied, grabbing something from the safe and shoving it into his pocket before closing the door and returning the blankets back inside the cabinet. He then threw his backpack over his shoulder and started up the stairs to the main deck. Halfway up the stairs he turned and glanced at Dublin.
“Clean up that mess in the galley, will you? And while you’re at it, put some new sheets on my bed. I didn’t travel halfway around the world to clean up whatever your drugged-up ass farted into my Egyptian cotton.”

“What do you mean
your
bed?” Dublin muttered. He looked at him with a puzzled stare, then his bloodshot eyes abruptly widened in surprise.
“Are you fookin’ telling me that this boat is–”

“There’s over fifty pounds of plastic explosives expertly fitted into the corners and crevices of the
Lorelei
,” he interrupted. “More than enough to ruin your day ten times over. How the hell you managed to get on board and deflower Puerto La Cruz’s ugliest prostitutes without blowing half of this harbor into next week is beyond me. I guess you’re one helluva fixer after all – meth or not.”

Dublin grinned sheepishly.

“Of course,” he continued, raising his eyebrows as he gingerly patted the object in his pocket he’d taken from the safe. “That’s not to say I can’t still ruin your day. You have until 2pm tomorrow to get me the package. In the meantime, I want you to shower, sober up, and move your shit out of my room. You and Tall Tommy can fight over the guest cabins.”

Dublin stared absently as his colleague disappeared up the stairs and quietly slipped off the boat. The sharp tendrils of a soon-to-be massive headache were beginning to work their way deeply into his head, and his stomach suddenly felt as if the boat were pitching in high seas. He looked over at the shattered remains of the mugs strewn across the galley and shrugged resignedly. “Feck it,” he muttered to himself as he stumbled into the salon and fell heavily onto the couch. His eyes were barely closed before the tapping of footsteps across the
Lorelei
’s top deck echoed painfully in his skull. He looked up to see a perfectly built young man in white slacks and a polo shirt gliding down the teak stairs, a leather satchel hanging casually over his shoulder.

Tall Tommy glanced quickly around the small room as he dropped his satchel on the floor and pulled two tiny earphones connected to his mp3 player from his ears. His muscled arms and chest stretched the fabric of his shirt as he pulled off his baseball cap and ran a quick hand through his thick hair. Dublin stared dully at the toned, tanned physique of his colleague with an equal mixture of envy and hatred.

“What’s up Dub?” Tall Tommy asked as he carefully rolled up his earphones and tucked them in his pocket. “You look like shit, dude.”
Dublin eyed him sourly for a moment before responding.
“Yeah well, you shoulda seen the feckin’ girls that–”
“Man, is this a nice boat or what?” Tall Tommy interrupted, running his fingers along the hand-made cabinets next to him. He whistled in awe as he disappeared into the galley and aft stateroom.

“Yeah, nice feckin’ boat.” Dublin muttered under his breath before closing his eyes and folding his arms over his head. His aching skull felt like it was in serious danger of cracking like glass under the pressure and shattering into a thousand pieces. Part of him was hoping that it would.   

“Oyster… fifty-six footer,” Tall Tommy mused as he walked into the salon and stood over Dublin. He kicked the Irishman in the leg to get a response, but only roused a feeble moan. “Somebody must have gotten a nice bonus to afford this sweet little bitch,” he continued. He sniffed at the air and looked around, a confused expression suddenly clouding his handsome face. “We’ve gotta do something about the smell though. It smells like whores and stale nachos in here.”

CONFIDENTIAL

Memorandum #RO-1423.09
Date: October 27

To: Thomas R. Coleman
Re: Candidate Entrance Evaluation/Case File: #6253-76
Subject: Evaluation Summary

Candidate #6253-76 Coleman, Thomas R. has completed the requisite entrance examinations and evaluations as defined. 

Candidate completed the Psychological Evaluation portion of the examination with a score of: NON-PROFILE/ATYPICAL.

Evaluators notes:
Candidate’s written test scores display a high potential for Impulse Control Disorders (ICD) that may significantly compromise judgment while active in the line of duty. Candidate’s psychological assessment interview was completed on the same day of the written evaluation as required by the Agency’s Psychological Evaluation Standards (PES). Candidate’s PE interview also indicated a high potential for ICDs.

Failure to meet the mandated psychological profile as defined by section 45.32 of the Mental Profile Guidelines disqualifies the candidate from acceptance into the Central Intelligence Agency at this time. As defined by section 4.12 of the MPG, candidate’s failure to meet the mandated psychological profile at the time of evaluation disallows any subsequent attempts for entry into the program. 

Agent Tom Coleman read the o
ne-page memo he’d received in the mail for a fifth time before neatly folding it twice and tossing it into the wastebasket. He then organized the items on the desk of his cramped, windowless office and stared vacantly at the
Landscapes of Sedona
calendar pinned on the wall next to him. His mind was still processing the news when someone knocked on the door.

“Yeah, come in.”

A male colleague, dressed in the customary button-down blue shirt and black slacks of the Department of Homeland Security’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or “ICE” office, walked in and smiled. Like most of the people that worked in the Flagstaff Field Office, the man was several years younger than Tom.

“Hey Tommy boy,” his coworker said, flashing a broad smile, “workin’ hard or hardly workin’?”

“What’s up?” Tom replied curtly.

His colleague sensed Tom’s mood and immediately eased his smile into an awkward smirk. “A few of us are heading out to lunch. It’s Rick’s birthday so we’re going big. Wanna come along?”

“So it’s Agent Martin’s birthday, huh?” Tom shook his head as he once again organized the folders on his desk. Like him, Rick Martin had started his career with ICE as an Investigation Agent about eighteen months earlier. In that time, Tom had worked with him on enough cases to know that the young man had all the requisite qualifications for a successful career in any governmental agency – he was endlessly cocky, flawlessly unimaginative, and brilliantly adept at turning investigative mistakes into departmental triumphs in the final draft of every report that he filed. Even so, it was still a surprise to Tom when Agent Martin was promoted to a coveted position in Undercover Operations six months ago with the speed and attention normally reserved for the offspring of nepotistic senior officials. The two had been cautiously cordial since, but Tom knew from that moment on that Rick could never be counted as a friend.

“Where are you guys going?” he asked.

“Burger King.”

Tom’s dark brown eyes flashed up at his colleague.
“Burger King? Are you serious? Christ, you guys eat there every other day of the week.”

“I know, but its Rick’s birthday and that’s where he wants to go.”
Tom’s colleague shrugged and looked at his watch. “So, are you in?”

“No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Can’t today. I’ve got too much work piling up.”

“Suit yourself, man,” his coworker replied, backing out the door. “Should I tell everyone you’re working a serious case? Maybe closing in on an illegal taco stand, or hot on the trail of a pack of rogue landscapers trying to sneak black-market piñatas through Nogales?” He smiled at Tom and winked. “Hey, who knows… if you keep it up, you might just get a promotion like Rick did.”

Tom opened a case folder on his desk and waved his hand dismissively.
“Go eat your fucking Burger King.”

“Right. Later.” His colleague spun and disappeared down the hallway as the steel door to Tom’s office closed loudly behind him. 

Tom stared blankly at the case documents in front of him for a few moments before closing the folder and carefully returning it to the stack on his desk. He then glanced at the wastebasket. The discarded memo was sitting upright on its edges on top of the other trash in a way that annoyed him. He reached over and quickly poked it onto its side.

“Fuck you,” he muttered.

He poked it several more times before suddenly punching it deep into the wastebasket with his fist.

“
Fuck
you
!”

Tom sat up and took a deep breath. He shrugged embarrassingly at himself as he opened the top drawer of his desk and grabbed a small bottle of antibacterial lotion. After methodically wiping his thick hands with the lotion, he turned to his computer and pecked “Impulse Control Disorder” into an online search engine. A second later, the first 10 of 340,000 results appeared on his screen. Tom scanned the first page of results and clicked on the first one that had any resemblance to English. The link flashed to a medical website with the image of a doctor smiling compassionately. Tom winced at the bold ‘Understanding Psychological Disorders’ headline on the page and scrolled down to read the text.

Impulse Control Disorder (ICD) is a set of psychiatric disorders including intermittent explosive disorder, kleptomania, pathological gambling, pyromania, trichotillomania, and dermatillomania.
Impulsivity, the key feature of these disorders, can be thought of as seeking a small, short term gain at the expense of a large, long term loss. Those affected with impulse control disorder repeatedly demonstrate failure to resist their behavioral impetuosity.

Impulse control disorders are considered to be part of the obsessive-compulsive disorder spectrum.

The page included several links to related disorders, treatment options, and mental facilities with calm-inducing names like
Pleasant Acres
and
Heritage Ridge
, but Tom ignored them and quickly closed the web page with an irritable click of his mouse.

There was no point in investigating the matter further, he concluded, because the whole idea was completely and utterly ridiculous. Kleptomania? Not possible. The only thing Tom had ever stolen in his life was a toy from a department store when he was a kid, and that was only because it was Superman, his favorite super hero. He’d been six-years-old for chrissake. Pathological gambling? A few weekends in Vegas years ago with his ex-wife and the occasional lottery ticket were the extent of his gambling history – certainly nothing in the pathological category. Pyromania?
Give me a fucking break
he thought. He couldn’t remember the other disorders that had been listed, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have any form of this “ICD” bullshit. Period.

The more he thought about it, the more obvious the answer became – the examiner that interviewed him must have grossly misread his psychological condition.

Tom thought back to the day of the evaluation. He remembered the examiner – a short, fair-skinned, mid-fortyish woman with a beaked nose, heavy make-up and a demeanor that had been friendly to the point of flirtatious.
Was that it?
he wondered. Did he not give her enough attention and she had decided to retaliate by pinning a disqualifying “disease” on him? The questions during the evaluation had been easy enough; he’d been concise and polite in his responses, and he even recalled her smiling warmly as she noted his responses. God knows how, but he must have pissed her off in some way. But how could he explain the written test results that apparently pointed to the same conclusion? Were they trying to weed him out for other reasons?
Am I too old?
Tom thought.
Am I too aggressive? Is this memo itself a test?

Tom froze with fear as another possibility suddenly came to mind.

Did they know what really happened in Afghanistan?

No matter how slim the possibility of someone knowing – and worse, revealing – what the truth might be, Tom had always known it existed. But why now? And who could have possibly known? He had to figure
this out. He needed an answer. A real answer. He had not just spent the last thirteen years of his career in service to his country to now be disregarded and diagnosed with a fucking disorder.

He clicked on his email and reread the message that his brother-in-law, CIA Agent Alex Murstead, had sent him that morning.

Tom,

I assume by now you’ve gotten an official notice from the agency about your candidacy. Sorry for the bad news, but don’t get too down over it. The CIA isn’t for everyone, and you should be proud to already be serving your country in the Department of Homeland Security.

- Alex

Tom spent the next fifteen minutes drafting a response to Alex, several times erasing and starting over, before finally concluding that he sounded like a jabbering idiot and clicking the delete button. Despite the fact that Alex was part of the CIA’s highly secretive Special Operations Group – or “SOG” as it was usually called – out of Langley, Tom knew there was probably little more he could do to help. Even if he could, his brother-in-law was not willing to ri
sk breaking the rules. At least not for him. Maybe if Tom and his sister Jane were on speaking terms it would be a different story, but that was a moot point. The two of them hadn’t spoken in years, no doubt for something Tom had done if he were to ask his sister. Now the only communication he had with her came in the form of a photo-copied letter Jane sent every Christmas informing the family in nauseating detail how she, Alex and Tom’s two perfect nieces were doing. Most years the self-absorbed bitch didn’t even bother to sign it.

Tom smacked his hands against the keyboard in resignation and sat back heavily in his flimsy, upholstery-torn chair. “C’mon, think,” he muttered to himself, locking his thick fingers together and resting his hands against his brown crew-cut hair. He sat quietly for several minutes considering the situation.

The idea that the CIA had an ulterior motive for barring him seemed unrealistic. Even since his first day of Marine Corp boot camp in San Diego over a decade ago, everything Tom had done was in service to his country. He’d graduated from his platoon and proudly served with the 1
st
Battalion, 5
th
Marine Regiments; completing a tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan before being discharged with honors. From there, he’d spent six years battling gang violence with the Phoenix Police Department’s Gang Enforcement Unit while he earned a bachelor degree in Criminal Justice. Despite the stress, he’d actually considered making the PPD a permanent career choice, until an argument between Tom and two young Latino men at a downtown bar where he and his now ex-wife were celebrating one night escalated into an altercation that left both of the young men in the hospital. The incident led to a three-week paid suspension while the matter was investigated. The conclusions of the investigation were little more than a slap on the hand, but it didn’t matter; the damage to his career and his already unstable marriage was already done. When his sergeant met with him on the morning of his reinstatement, Tom handed him his badge and told him he was resigning from the force. The next day Tom’s wife told him she was resigning from their marriage. 

Two months later he took a job with the Department of Homeland Security’s ICE agency, and he’d been quietly pushing paper for the government ever since. A multiple homicide case he was investigating in the border town of Douglas gave Tom his first opportunity to work with the CIA, and he was immediately enamored. He still vividly remembered the first morning of the investigation when two gray-suited men walked in and flashed their agency credentials before moving through the crime scene with an aura of unchallenged superiority. The rest of the team, including the local PD and Border Patrol investigators, whispered expletives about them behind their backs, but not Tom. To him, they represented the best of the best – highly trained, experienced men who had the brains, the balls, and the federal brawn to get the job done.

It was at that moment that Tom decided he wanted the gray suit and badge of the CIA for himself. 

Certain that his official record was clear, Tom again considered the possibility that the CIA recruiters had stumbled upon the facts of what happened during his second tour in Afghanistan. After all, they were the CIA. As his brother-in-law Alex once mentioned during a rare family get together,
they just have ways of knowing
. But how could they know anything more than the details he’d officially reported?

Despite years of suppressing the memory, a storm of images began streaming through Tom’s mind. His heart rate immediately began to race as a horrifying montage of scenes – pitch black night, shouts of surprise and anger, blinding muzzle flashes and deafening gunfire, running, falling, stumbling – collided and twisted together. He quickly pushed the images from his mind and concentrated on the hard facts. Eight marines had set out for a routine patrol in the southern district of Arghandab on that clear night of May 23. Approximately three hours into their patrol, Tom and his men had come under heavy fire from a large group of insurgents. Less than an hour later it was over. Of the eight men who had set out on that patrol, seven didn’t come back.