Don't Order Dog (25 page)

Tom glanced down at the note and read the quickly scrawled text.

Huppel de Pub
Attn: Hubbell Gardner
Kolksteeg 3
1012 PT Amsterdam

---------------------------------------
Hotel Keizersgracht

“Hubbell Gardner?” Tom mumbled as his brow furrowed in confusion. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“I hear it’s a popular name for terrorists these days,” Chip replied sarcastically. “And before you ask, the second name is the hotel he wrote the letter from. I assume he’s staying there until he leaves. Either way, that should be more than enough information for a top-notch team of federal agents to find him, right Tom?”

Tom stared silently at the address, shaking his head in agreement. He pulled out his notepad and quickly wrote down the information. When he was done, he tucked his notepad back into his pocket and turned to Chip. “This is turning out to be a helluva good day for me,” he said, giving the older man a broad smile. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

Chip shrugged dismissively. “You can thank me later when this mess is done. I’ve already made it clear why I’m doing this.”

Tom nodded and glanced towards the far corner behind the counter. There, still curled on top of her barstool, Jeri sat engrossed in her book.

“What the hell is she reading, anyway?” he asked as he stood to leave.

“A book on global trade I believe,” Chip replied flatly without looking over. “In case you didn’t notice when you did your extensive background check on her, Jeri has a Master’s Degree in Economics.”

“Really?” Tom said as he zipped up his jacket. “Beauty and brains, huh? Well good for her.” He put on his gloves and extended his hand to Chip. “I owe you big for this, Chip,” he said earnestly.

The older man smiled and shook his hand. “Good luck, Tom. I look forward to hearing how everything turns out in Amsterdam.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to talk about it,” Tom replied. “Operational stuff like that is classified. But don’t worry, we’ll get him.” 

Chip’s pale blue eyes watched him closely a
s he nodded his head.
“I have no doubt that you will.”
 

∞

Agent Rick Martin opened the door of the Director’s third-floor office and confidently stepped inside. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Preston looked up from his latest briefing and studied the tall
, handsome agent standing in front of him. “Agent Martin?”

“Yes sir.”

“Have a seat, agent,” Preston said, pointing at the chair across from his desk. He watched as the young agent swaggered over to the chair and sat down. “I understand you’re currently working in Undercover Operations. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir,
” Agent Martin replied.

“That can be pretty risky work at times, can’t it?”

“Depends on the assignment, sir,” Agent Martin answered matter-of-factly. “Most are pretty low-key. But we do get a good adrenaline rush from time to time.”

“And you enjoy that?” Preston asked. “The adrenaline rush?”

Agent Martin eyed the Director curiously. “Yes sir, I do.”

Preston nodded his head. “Good.” He closed the briefing folder in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure an agent working
undercover ops like yourself understands that protecting this country can sometimes require unconventional tactics to get the job done.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Tactics an average agent might be unable or even unwilling to do,” Preston continued, watching Martin carefully.

Agent Martin shrugged. “Well I don’t consider myself an average agent, sir.”

“That’s why you’re sitting in my office,” Preston replied. He spun his chair around and stared absently out the window. “I might have an assignment that would require an agent with exceptional talent to do whatever it takes to get the job done. No paperwork, just my direct orders. That means complete trust on both sides of the table.” He turned and fixed his dark green eyes on Martin. “Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Agent Martin?”

Agent Martin leaned forward in his chair. “Would this assignment have a high probability of adrenaline, sir?”

Preston nodded his head.

Agent Martin smiled. “Then yes sir. Very much so, sir.”

Eugene Austin sat behind the wheel of his mother’s
maroon-colored Toyota Corolla and stared out at the quiet neighborhood on the northeast edge of town. The neighborhood, a mixture of duplex homes and small, 30’s-era bungalows, appeared to be in a state of decline, and Eugene again checked the locks on the doors of the parked sedan before settling back into the seat. He then turned up the volume on the new rap album he was blasting into his headphones.

The clock on his iPhone read 4:23pm
– almost six hours since he’d gotten the phone call from Jack Preston urgently requesting his services on a new case. Preston had given Eugene some ‘top priority’ shadow gigs before, but he’d never sounded as impatient or anxious as he did with this one. Nor had he ever been so threatening. ‘
If you fuck this one up, consider this the last paying job of your single largest client.’
Eugene shook his head with bewilderment.

The last few rays of winter sun were just beginning to slip behind the rooftops when a car matching the description he’d been given turned onto the street.
Finally
he thought with a mixture of excitement and relief
.
Preston had called Eugene at noon to tell him that the target had left his office before expected and would have to be re-acquired at his home. Now, after several hours of mind-numbing boredom, Eugene pulled the long bangs of dark hair away from his acne-blemished face and watched as the vehicle slowly drove up the street and turned into the driveway across from him. He quickly eased his seat back until his body wasn’t visible, then reached over and flipped a small electronic switch.

On the backseat, the green power light of the listening device pointed at Tom Coleman’s house glowed to life.

∞

Tom Coleman stood inside the entryway of his home and patiently removed his gloves, jacket and shoes. He started to place his shoes in their proper spot on the mat in the entryway, but remembered the mud puddle he had stepped in earlier and realized the
y needed to be thoroughly cleaned. He walked into the kitchen and quickly grabbed a plastic bucket from under the sink, then unwrapped a new cleaning sponge. He was just starting to put on rubber gloves when his cell phone began to buzz. Tom looked at the caller’s name on the screen and smiled as he brought it to his ear.

“Alex,” he said warmly. “Thanks for returning my message so promptly.” 

“Cut the shit, Tom,” Alex replied flatly. “What have you got?”

“Something important,” Tom said as he tossed the rubber gloves on the kitchen counter and walked into his living room. He stopped at the window and quickly scanned the quiet neighborhood.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I have new information on our guy,” Tom said as his eyes narrowed on a maroon sedan parked across the street. He’d never noticed the vehicle parked on his street before, but there was nothing particularly suspicious about it. Plus it looked to be empty. He held his stare for a moment longer then walked over to the couch and sat down.

“Okay then, give it to me,” Alex replied tersely.  

“I will, but first I want to thank you for the letter. I have to say, that was one helluva way to be recruited into the CIA. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so needed in my entire life.”

“I didn’t write it, our legal department did. Now please tell me something that will make that letter worth everyone’s time.”

Tom could hear the irritation rising in his brother-in-law’s voice. “Well,” he replied, “it was still a great letter. It even left Divisional Director Jack Preston speechless when he came into my office this morning sniffing around for information.”
He paused expectantly. “Anyway,”

“What the hell are you talking about, Tom?” Alex asked, the alarm apparent in his voice. “Jack Preston came to see you today?”

“Yep, first thing. He walked in and said he and Director Connolly were aware that I was involved in something with the CIA. He said I needed to let them in on it.”

“And what did you tell him?” Alex demanded, his voice descending into a low growl.

“Absolutely nothing,” Tom replied matter-of-factly. “I handed him your letter and that was it. He read it and left.”

“Good… let’s keep it that way. And the next time Preston or that goddamn idiot Connolly even so much as sniff in your direction, you let me know. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Tom responded. “Of course, Preston made it pretty clear that assisting the CIA with this case was seriously jeopardizing my current career with ICE and Homeland Security.”

“What’s your point
?”

“Oh nothing,” Tom said dismissively. “I just hope you’ve got more than a letter to back me up if this tug-of-war between our two agencies gets ugly.”

“I look after the people that look after me, Tom,” Alex replied tersely. “Now, what have you got?”

“I have the name of the hotel where our target is currently staying,” Tom replied. “I also have the name and address of the local pub where he’s hanging out. Apparently he requested a care package from my source.”

“What kind of care package?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Anyway, assuming a minor condition is agreed upon, I would be happy to share it with you now.” Tom listened as his brother-in-law exhaled resignedly on the other end of the line.

“And what condition is that?”

Tom smiled into the phone. “You may not believe this Alex, but I’ve never actually been to Langley during the holiday season.”

“So?”

“So I want to be there when the action happens,” Tom replied. “You know, to witness the fruits of my labor. After all, I
’m a part of the CIA family now. It just wouldn’t make sense for the man responsible for this victory not to be there for the big finale. When this shit goes down, I want to see it.” 

“I’ll give it
some serious consideration, Tom,” Alex replied derisively.
“Now give me the fucking intel.”

“That’s not how this works, Alex. Give me what I want and I’ll tell you what I know. Otherwise I’d be happy to just call your European field office with this information.”

Tom’s mouth stretched into a grin as his brother-in-law cursed into the phone and then yelled out for his assistant. A few seconds later Alex was back on the line.

“My assistant, Alycia, will call you back in ten minutes with your flight arrangements. She’ll arrange for someone to pick you up and bring you here. I suggest you pack light, because you’re not staying long
. Got it?” 

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, for the last time, give me the fucking intel.”
 

∞
 

Holy shit.
Eugene Austin ripped off his headphones and immediately flipped open his laptop to send the audio file of the phone conversation he’d just captured between Tom Coleman and the CIA agent named Alex. The voice quality wasn’t perfect, but certainly good enough to hear exactly what had been said.
Not bad for an eighteen-year-old geek
with his own homemade equipment
he thought smugly as he began preparing the message he would encrypt and email to Preston along with the audio file.

With the message ready to send, Eugene glanced anxiously over at Tom Coleman’s house. Just a few minutes earlier Coleman had peered suspiciously out through the blinds of his front window and stared directly at Eugene’s car, but the house now stood quiet. He grabbed the headphones to the listening device and pressed them to his ear. The sounds of scrubbing and a running faucet emanated from the small interior. Satisfied that he hadn’t been noticed, he flipped off the listening device and pressed the ‘send’ button on his email.

As dusk settled around him, Eugene folded up his laptop and checked the time on his iPhone.
I can still make dinner
he thought happily as he started his mother’s maroon-colored sedan and drove quickly towards home.

“You’re too late,
Jack!”

The raspy southern voice screamed from the speakerphone and echoed through the office. “The only value in this audio recording is for training other Homeland Security agents to see what happens when you get too goddamn sloppy!”

Jack Preston sat hunched on the leather couch in his Flagstaff field office saying nothing as HSI Director Richard Connolly paused to let him respond. Five minutes earlier he had played Connolly the audio file he’d received the night before between Tom Coleman and Tom’s brother-in-law Alex Murstead. Now, as his intelligence colleague breathed heavily into the phone, he stirred his coffee and waited for Connolly to finish his outburst.

“And thanks to the efforts of this Tom Coleman sunofabitch,” Connolly continued, “our modest little department that has been entrusted with the safe keeping of the American people just took one more step towards getting shit-canned by Congress! And just so we’re clear Jack, if that really does happen, I’ll blame you and your blatant lack of action in this matter as the reason.”

Preston winced as Connolly suddenly erupted into a fit of coughing. A moment later his strained voice was back shouting into the phone.

“
Well, Jack – are you going to speak up and say something for yourself?” 

“I disagree with your assumption, Richard,” Preston replied. “I don’t believe we’re too late.”

“Oh really?” Connolly retorted, the tone of anger in his voice unmistakable. “Well then, what do you suggest we do Jack? Should we go ahead and hop on the plane with your man Coleman and tag along on his tour of CIA headquarters?”

Preston stood up from the couch and paced slowly towards the large window in his office.

“Come on Richard, you’ve been doing this even longer than I have. You know damn well what we should be doing right now – getting someone we can trust to Amsterdam to immediately begin verifying this information. You also know how the CIA works. Shit, it’ll take them two days just to verify the intel and get a team into play. If we act quickly enough, we have a good chance of getting to this guy before they do.”

Preston stared out at the morning mist that hung like a veil over the winter landscape outside. He listened patiently to the wheezing rhythm of Connolly’s labored breath as the man considered his suggestion. In their years of working together, Preston had grown to admire Richard’s intelligence and dogged tenacity, traits he’d no doubt honed from his former life in the NSA. Unfortunately, Richard was also plagued by a common ailment of men who spent too many years analyzing information – a terminal inability to make quick decisions.
Analysis paralysis
Jack thought petulantly.

“Okay Jack,” Connolly finally replied, his voice hesitant. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make a few calls to some friends within the AIVD. They’ll–”

“What’s the AIVD?” Preston interrupted.

“The Netherlands General Intelligence and Security Service. It’s essentially the equivalent of the CIA, Secret Service and Homeland Security forces combined into one agency.” Connolly paused and coughed roughly. “It’s not a big country
, Jack. They don’t have the budgets for multiple security and intelligence agencies like we do. Nor do they have the need.”

“Okay, got it. So what’s your plan?”

“There are some men within the AIVD that I trust. We’ll feed them the information and let them do the legwork– assuming you’re right and there’s still time.”

Preston shook his head at the phone. “That’s it? That’s your plan? Dispatch the Danish secret police and see what they stumble onto?” He spun on his heels and paced quickly towards his desk, glancing at his watch as walked.

“They’re Dutch, Jack, not Danish,” Connolly replied.

“Dutch, Danish
… whatever,” Preston mumbled. “What happened to your demand for more aggressive tactics, Richard? Even if your Danish friends did manage to get there before the CIA and nab this guy, what possible benefit would that be to us?”

“What benefit?” Connolly replied angrily. “You mean other than derailing another CIA victory in the war on terror that was made possible by our efforts? Christ, that by itself would make it a win for us, Jack
. And I can assure you that my associates in the AIVD will make it clear where this information came from.”

Yeah –
you
, you power-hungry fuck
Preston thought irritably as he fell into his chair and opened his laptop. “With all due respect, Richard,” Preston said as he brought up an airline website and quickly typed in a flight number, “we need something far more aggressive for this situation than what you’re suggesting… which is why I’ve already put some other things into play.”

“
Other
things?” Connolly asked skeptically. “Such as what?”

“I’ve got an agent in route to Amsterdam as we speak
,” Preston answered as he studied the flight schedule on his screen.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Arriving at 9:25pm Central European time,” Preston replied, looking again at his watch. “He should be on the ground there in approximately two hours.” He leaned back in his chair and listened to what sounded like a stifled cough on the other end of the line.

“You actually sent one of your Homeland Security agents to Amsterdam?” Connolly asked in disbelief.

“One of
our
Homeland Security agents, Richard.”

“And just what are his qualifications?” Connolly demanded.

“His qualifications are exactly what this assignment requires,” Preston responded.

“Goddamn it, Jack!” Connolly’s southern drawl cracked with anger. “Is this your way of trying to make up for the colossal mishandling of that Coleman idiot? Because if it is, I can tell you right now you’re only setting the stage for a larger catastrophe with a half-baked idea like this.”

Preston brushed off the HSI Director’s comment. “Richard, if there’s one thing we agree on, it’s the time-sensitive nature of this situation. I was fortunate enough to receive information on the whereabouts of our terrorist target the same time the CIA did, and I decided to act upon that information. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe stealing headlines from the CIA and gaining the credibility and budgetary backing from Congress that the Department of Homeland Security deserves are still your top priorities, right?”

“Of course they are Jack, but–”

“Then it’s time we implemented the tactics and resolve to see this through, Richard– plain and simple. No more kowtowing to the CIA, especially when they’re operating on information this Department was coerced into providing.”

Connolly breathed a heavy sigh into the phone. Preston heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter flint as the HSI Director lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Those things will kill you, Richard.”

Connolly grunted bitterly. “You’re going to kill me first
, Jack – and the entire Department of Homeland Security along with me.” He coughed again before speaking in a flat, defeated tone. “Let me make myself clear. I don’t agree in any way with your decision to send an unqualified, unsupported agent into the field. Nor do I have any intention of backing you up if and when he fails.”

“I didn’t think you would, Richard,” Preston replied fla
tly. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”

He clicked off the phone before Connolly could respond.