Don't Order Dog (29 page)

“It’s all true, Tom,” Alex replied, his face strangely serene.

“Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Agent Coleman, the facts are clear,” the lawyer interjected. “You knowingly withheld information regarding a suspected terrorist from agents conducting a Federal investigation. That alone is a serious criminal offense.”

“Exactly what the fuck did I withhold, asshole?”
Tom asked, stabbing his finger at Alex.
“
I’m the one that made this idiot aware of him!”

“That may be true. But you provided this information only on the condition that you become employed by the agency. That’s considered coercion and bribery. That’s also a federal crime.
But I have good news for you, Agent Coleman,” the lawyer paused and handed Tom a second document. “In light of what you’ve done for our agency and our country tonight, Agent Murstead and I have agreed not to pursue any charges against you. That is, on two conditions.”

“And what are those?”   

“First, that you never discuss the details of this case or your involvement in it with anyone. Not even senior-level officials back at the Department of Homeland Security – including Director Preston.”

“Especially Director Preston,” Alex chimed in.

“Second,” the lawyer continued, “that you fully agree with the assessment previously provided to you from this agency stating that you do not meet the qualifications for entrance into our recruiting program.” He shifted his weight and gave Tom with a half-hearted sigh of empathy. “I’m sorry Tom, but sometimes we just have to accept things and move on.”

Tom glowered at the lawyer in silence. A crushing weight suddenly pressed against his chest, a weight he was intimately familiar with. It was the same feeling he’d felt after his wife had told him she was leaving; the same one he’d felt after being suspended from the Phoenix PD; certainly the same one he’d felt the instant everything had turned so completely fucked up in Afghanistan.

It was the oppressive, inescapable feeling of failure.

He nodded his head slowly and stared at the heavy silver pen in his hand. He quietly signed the two documents in his hands before handing them back to the lawyer.   

“Excellent,” the lawyer said as he checked the signatures on the pages and quickly signed and dated beneath them. “I hope you realize this does not diminish the great work you’ve done for your country tonight. You’re a true patriot, Tom. Now go back to your job with Homeland Security. That’s where you’re supposed to be.”

Tom stood from his chair and walked towards the door, tossing the pen onto the lap of the lawyer’s pressed pants as he passed. He was just opening the door when Alex spoke.

“You did the right thing tonight, Tom. I know you don’t believe it now, but give it time. You will.”

Tom turned and looked at his brother-in-law with a murderous stare.
“This isn’t over, Alex,” he said flatly before slipping out the door.

The heavyset lawyer adjusted himself in his seat and looked somberly over at Alex. “Well… I’d say that went as well as can be expected.”

The two men exchanged a silent nod before smiling.

“They did what?” Jack Preston asked, nearly spilling his glass of scotch as he spun around and stared at the speaker phone.

“They neutralized two targets in Amsterdam less than two hours ago,” HSI Director Richard Connolly replied angrily. His raspy voice echoed loudly inside the large upstairs study of Preston’s Scottsdale home.

“Two targets?” Preston responded, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the large clock on the wall and absently noted the time as just after 10pm.  “That doesn’t make any sense. Christ…what else do you know, Richard?”

“A team from Special Operations carried it out this morning,” Connolly continued. “Raided a hotel around 5am local time. One man was neutralized by the SOG team. The other apparently detonated an explosive charge and killed himself before they could get to him.” There was a pause on the line as the sound of a cigarette was lit and inhaled. When Connolly’s voice returned, it was low and hostile. “The CIA is going to claim another huge solo victory in the war on terror, Jack. Which means our cash-strapped Congress is going to be asking once again why they need to fund a Department of Homeland Security when the homeland is being secured just fine by all the other goddamn agencies. And we can all thank your very own Agent Coleman for this one.” 

Preston ran his hand through his receding wisps of red hair and shook his head in disbelief. He knew the clock had been ticking from the moment Eugene Austin
called to confirm that Agent Coleman had driven to Phoenix and departed on a flight to Washington the day before. Now, for the second time in the last two days, he was being raked over the coals for underestimating the speed of Coleman and his brother-in-law, Agent Murstead. He pounded his fist on his desk in anger.

“What have you heard from your agent in Amsterdam, Jack?” Connolly asked, his southern accent thick with sarcasm. “Has he come up with anything of value? Or are he and his penis still making their way through the red-light district?”

Preston cringed at the Director’s question. Despite several attempts, he’d still not made contact with his field agent, and he was reluctant to share this news with his colleague. “Nothing of value yet,” he replied dismissively. “If he’s gathered any more intel on this morning’s mission, I should know in the next hour.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell you’re expecting him to find in the ashes of a successful CIA operation, but apparently you handle your intel ops a little differently than I would. I just hope this field agent has a bit more loyalty than Agent Coleman.”

Jack considered the HSI Director’s comment of a brief moment before responding.
“Yes, he does.”

“That’s good, because you and your field agent have exactly twenty-four hours to come up with something worth my time. Otherwise my next congressional discussion is going to include some painful budgetary cuts for ICE in the Western Region.” Connolly muffled a cough and wheezed loudly. “I may not control your ass directly Jack, but I can still squeeze you where it hurts. Remember that the next time you decide to jeopardize the Department by sending another untrained agent into the field.”

Preston silently shook his head and threw back the glass of scotch in his hand. A dull headache suddenly pressed against his skull.

“And Jack,” Connolly continued, “if I were you, I’d do everything I could to acquire that package Coleman’s source sent to that pub in Amsterdam. My gut tells me there’s more to this terror network than the guys lying dead in that hotel, and it’s a good bet the CIA boys have been too distracted to put men on that little detail. If we have any chance of getting back into this game, it’s going to come from that package.”

Preston considered the advice for a moment before reluctantly nodding his head.
“I’m on it.”

“I hope so, Jack… for everyone’s sake. Keep me posted.”

Preston grunted and hung up the phone. He immediately grabbed the bottle of single malt scotch and refilled his glass before walking over to the window. The desert landscape appeared barren and lifeless under the black Arizona night. Preston stared at it absently as he drained his glass dry, then pulled out his cell phone and quickly dialed another number.

Agent Rick Martin sat on the hard wooden stool and focused his attention on sipping his iced tea and looking inconspicuous. From his vantage point in the corner of the dim room, he could easily keep his eyes on the handful of patrons lounging at the bar and sitting at the tables around him. He sucked through his straw and glanced out the large Romanesque window. Outside, a bone-gray blanket of clouds was releasing a drizzle of late-morning rain that polished the cobblestone streets and foreign street signs that lined the sidewalk.

Rick was hungry, but he was reluctant to order anything from the kitchen. The previous day’s lunch and dinner from the bar menu had practically destroyed his stomach, and he knew there was little hope of getting anything that wasn’t some variation of the heavy, greasy sausage that made him nauseous at the mere thought. He stirred his muddy brown tea and sipped at it resignedly. He’d been in Amsterdam for a little over a day, and nearly all of that time had been spent in this strange, dark little bar.

And he didn’t even really know why.

Director Preston had clearly not been happy with him when he checked in hours behind schedule upon arriving at the Hotel Keizersgracht, but how was he supposed to know it was going to take that long to find? It wasn’t exactly standard procedure to send an ICE field agent to another country, and Agent Martin hadn’t had the faintest idea what the cab driver was saying when the man started yelling at him in the harsh-sounding gibberish of the local language.

He’d been too late anyway. The hotel was crawling with firefighters and police investigators when the cab finally pulled up to it, and he’d quickly motioned to the driver to keep going as the blue-coated
politie
stared at him suspiciously. After a few minutes of screaming at him over the phone, Preston had told him to proceed directly to a bar called Huppels de Pub and call him immediately if any packages showed up that were larger than a matchbox. He’d also made it clear that any fuck-ups on this part of the assignment were unacceptable if he wanted to continue his career with the Department of Homeland Security. Rick had practically stuttered in fear when he’d assured the Director that he indeed wanted to continue his career with the DHS, and that there was no way possible he was going to fuck up anything related to his assignment. The Director had merely grunted his disappointment before ending the call.

Rick
stirred his tea and stared out the window, brooding at the whole strange situation. Director Preston had told him nothing more than he needed to know, but Rick was smart enough to know that whatever package he was waiting for must be hugely important. Why else had Preston met with him privately and told him he was being given a high-priority, top secret assignment that was well above his pay-grade? ‘You talk only to me on this one,’ Preston had said as he stared at Rick with those cold, menacing green eyes. ‘Yes sir,’ he’d said, practically saluting at the Director in terror and excitement. Next thing he knew he was flying to Amsterdam and doing his best to not look like an agent on special assignment. He’d even taken out his contacts and worn his old glasses to avoid being recognized. It wasn’t until he was half-way across the Atlantic that it even dawned on him that this was his first trip to Europe.  

And now, here he was, working on his fifth ice tea and trying not to think about the fact that he needed to urinate again. The bartender walked over with an impassive smile and asked him in English if he wanted something else.
At least he speaks fucking English
he thought as he glanced around the room.
Maybe I should order a beer. Nobody drinks ice tea at a bar. No, I need to stay focused. The mail should be arriving soon.

Rick
shifted in his chair again and reluctantly decided his bladder couldn’t wait. He glanced out the window to make sure no one was entering the pub before quickly heading off to the restroom.
 

∞
 

Tom unlocked the door to his bungalow and dragged his suitcase out of the cold Arizona night and into the small entryway. He clicked on the light, removed his shoes, and carried the suitcase in
to his bedroom. Five minutes later, with everything unpacked and sorted, he returned the suitcase to its proper spot in the closet and walked into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and scanned the neatly stacked rows of frozen dinners that were categorized by date. Seeing nothing that looked appealing, he grabbed a bottle of beer and a clean glass and walked wearily into the living room. 

He dropped heavily into the couch and clicked on the TV. The full weight of his trip to Langley suddenly struck him, forcing an exhausted sigh from his lips as he turned to a twenty-four hour news channel. He carefully poured the beer into the glass and drank back half the contents in a single gulp as a handsome, thirty-something news anchor smiled and rattled off the latest news. A few minutes later, just as Tom’s eyes began to slide closed, the tone of the news anchor’s voice rose in excitement.

“We have some breaking news from Washington,” the anchor said as a large “Breaking News” graphic flew onto the screen. “Sources from the Pentagon have just announced that an active terrorist cell has been infiltrated in Amsterdam and two men have been killed.”

Tom opened his eyes and watched as footage of a familiar hotel filled his TV screen. A large group of police and firemen stood listlessly in the foreground as the camera panned slowly up the Hotel Keizersgracht’s narrow façade and paused on the second-floor. The camera then zoomed in on a blown-out window that was scarred with the black remnants of a recent fire. The baritone voice of the anchorman continued over the images.

“One of the terrorists, whose identity has not yet been disclosed, is reported to have detonated an explosive device, killing him and destroying what may have been a large cache of weapons-making materials…”

A mug shot photo of a heavyset man appeared on the TV, his neck and the left portion of his face covered by a large, reptilian-looking tattoo. Tom immediately recognized him as the man the SOG team had been forced to fire upon in the manager’s room of the hotel. 

“…the other, a Hungarian man named András Vida who is pictured here, was already known to Dutch police and international authorities from prior arrests ranging from sex trafficking to child molestation...”

The image of the dead man was replaced by the handsome news anchor.

“…while the Pentagon remains tight-lipped on who’s responsible for finding the two men and bringing them to justice, some experts are saying this looks like the work of the CIA’s Special Operations Group – a covert team of highly trained men that in recent years have played a key role in fighting the war on terror and keeping America safe…” 

Tom finished his beer with a second quick gulp as the anchorman smiled and moved on to the next story. He then gently placed the empty glass on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him before stretching out on the couch. Within seconds he was asleep.
 

∞

Agent Martin stepped out of the restroom and walked quickly back to his seat in the corner of the bar. He was just sitting down when a striking young brunette woman in a bright orange and white jacket entered the pub carrying a large satchel embroidered with a crown and the name “PostNL”. She stepped towards the bar and dropped the heavy bag unceremoniously onto the counter as the bartender smiled and walked towards her.

“Hallo
, Danielle,” the bartender said warmly, eyeing the postal carrier keenly as she opened the satchel and pulled a handful of bundled letters from inside.

“Hallo, Henrick,” she replied, ignoring his stare as she quickly sorted the parcels.

From his corner of the room, Rick watched as the postal woman handed a few letters to the bartender before slipping the strap of her satchel back over her shoulder and turning to leave. She was halfway out the door when she suddenly stopped and glanced down into the large bag as if remembering something. Rick’s pulse immediately quickened as she pulled a shoebox-sized package from her mailbag and walked back to the bar. The bartender glanced at it quizzically when she handed it to him, muttering something incomprehensible as he shook his head. The postal woman simply shrugged and smiled before walking out into the wet Amsterdam morning. Rick stared at the brown, paper-wrapped package in the bartender’s hands and drank back the last of his iced tea.
That has to be our package
he thought excitedly. Luckily he’d already worked out the plan for getting it. He’d simply walk up to the bartender and order another tea. When the bartender turned to refill his drink, he’d snatch up the parcel and make a quick exit. It wasn’t elegant, but it would get the job done.

He grabbed his empty glass and stood up.

As he headed towards the bar, a man Rick hadn’t noticed suddenly rose from a nearby table and stepped in the aisle in front of him. He was tall and well built, perhaps a few inches taller than Rick’s own six-foot frame, with blonde hair and stylish new clothes. The man moved quickly, and Rick realized with a sudden feeling of dread that the man was also heading towards the bartender – and the package laying on the counter.

Rick
followed him to the bar counter and calmly sat down as the tall blonde man stepped up to the bartender and smiled.

“Hallo, Henrick,” the man said with a friendly voice.
The bartender smiled in response.

“
Deed mijn pakket eindelijk aankomen?”

A few
barstools away, Rick listened with a growing sense of alarm.
What the hell is he asking?
he wondered as the bartender looked at the man suspiciously. As if reading Rick’s mind, the bartender glanced at the package before replying in English.

“This is your package?” he asked with a thick Dutch accent, sliding the small box in front of him.

“Indeed it is,” the man responded in perfect, American-sounding English. Rick noticed that the man was extraordinarily handsome. He briefly wondered if Amsterdam attracted a disproportionately high number of people endowed with such good looks.

“So you are…” the bartender gla
nced at the name on the package. “Hubbell Gardner?”

“In the flesh.”

The bartender’s friendly smile faded
.
“May I see some identification?”

The man stared at the bartender for a moment before laughing uncomfortably. His eyes flickered
at the package. “Well, that’s the funny thing… I somehow managed to forget my wallet this morning. But I can assure you that I’m the person this package was intended for.”

Rick listened intently as he watched the
exchange from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender replied
. “But I can’t give you this package without some proof of identification.” He laid his hand protectively on top of the box.

“Right, of course,” the blonde man replied. He glanced embarrassingly over his shoulder at Rick. Rick realized he was staring at the man and abruptly smiled. The man studied him briefly before turning and slapping his hand on the bar. “I think I have an idea
!” he said excitedly.

“What is that?”
the bartender asked.

“How about I tell you exactly what’s in the package, and then you open it? If I’m right
about the contents, the package must belong to me.” 

The bartender looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “
And if you’re wrong? What do I tell the person who comes in and finds their package opened?”

The blonde man leaned his muscular body against the bar and flashed
another smile. “Just cut along the edge and have a peek inside. Assuming I’m wrong, the rightful owner won’t even notice. But I’m a betting man, and I’ll bet you a few t-shirts and a box of Girl Scout cookies that I’m right.”

The bartender tapp
ed his fingers against the package for a moment before finally sighing and nodding his head. He grabbed a knife from under the counter and carefully sliced open the top edge of the box. From his seat a few feet away, Rick watched transfixed. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his head as the bartender peered inside and lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well?” the blonde-haired man said calmly, leaning in closer.

The bartender shook his head as he closed the package and looked up him with a smile. “May I have one of the t-shirts?”