Don't Order Dog (19 page)

Simplifying his earlier approach, Tom typed “Guwahati September” into the search engine, this time adding the word “Petronus”. The first page of results flashed in front of him. As he read the second headline on the list, Tom’s pulse immediately quickened.

“Petronus Researcher killed in accident”

Tom clicked on the link and a British news site immediately filled the screen. A large image of a busy city street corner appeared above the brief article.

September 28
Guwahati, India – The collision of two vehicles at a busy intersection resulted in the death of a 31 year-old Italian man this evening after unidentified materials in one of the vehicles caught fire and quickly consumed both vehicles. Marcello Avogadro, a chemical engineer employed by Petronus Energy, was traveling in one of the vehicles, a motorized rickshaw called a tuk-tuk, near the Bamunimaidan market when the accident occurred. 

The drivers of both vehicles managed to escape prior to the intense fire observed by witnesses, but neither has been found since for questioning. No others injuries were reported. Authorities are now investigating the source of the materials that caused the fatal accident.

Tom glanced at the date of the Guwahati letter and shook his head ominously. Like the bombing in Port Harcourt, the letter was written and sent just three days before the accident. He quickly copied the text from the online article and pasted it into a document on his computer, then created a folder titled “Research” inside his personal folder and saved the document under the name “Petronus incident report”.

Going back to the search engine, Tom then typed the phrase “Al Jubail Petronus October”. The laptop screen flickered with results. After scrolling through the first eight pages of results, he again decided Al Jubail was a dead end and moved on to Puerto la Cruz.

Over 4,500 results were returned for Puerto la Cruz. Scrolling through them, Tom’s hand froze when he came to the fourth link on the second page.

“Renowned energy scientist fatally wounded after falling overboard”

The article linked to the headline was predictably brief, but Tom’s pulse again quickened as he read the summary of details.

October 29

Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela – Renowned American energy scientist and entrepreneur Derrick Birch was killed late yesterday evening after falling overboard from a private yacht and sustaining fatal injuries. Birch, who was reportedly in negotiations with Petronus Energy for an undisclosed position within the company’s alternative energy division, was suspected by authorities to be intoxicated at the time of the tragedy, which occurred in calm waters approximately six miles offshore.

46 year
-old Birch was considered a leading scientist in the areas of oil refinement and fuel-cell development, and owned controlling shares in more than four separate energy development companies. According to witnesses on-board at the time of the incident, Birch appeared heavily intoxicated prior to the accident. At this time authorities have no reason to suspect foul play.
 

Tom read the article twice before saving a copy to his Petronus incident report. He then wrote a quick summary of the facts.

Guwahati, India:
     Letter written – 9/25
     Marcello Avogadro – Chemical engineer
     Killed – fatal accident – 9/27

Al Jubail, Saudi Arabia:
     Letter written – 10/5
     No known incident
     Large Petronus operation

Port Harcourt, Nigeria:
     Letter written – 10/16
     Shahid Al Dossari – Director of Research
     Killed – homicide/bomb – 10/18

Puerto La Cruz:
     Letter written – 10/25
     Derrick Birch – Scientist
     Killed – fatal accident – 10/28
    

Tom sat back and quietly contemplated the summary on his laptop screen. The facts were eerily similar. Three men, all of them researchers or scientists for Petronus Energy, were now dead. All three had died under extraordinary circumstances, and all three had died exactly three days after an unknown author had sent a letter from the very same location. Even the location that wasn’t tied to a death, Al Jubail, was linked to Petronus
. And certainly none of the locations were common travel destinations.

Another thought suddenly occurred to Tom as he studied the dates on the screen. He sat up and quickly punched “Joe’s Last Stand Saloon Flagstaff” into the search engine. Almost immediately the address and phone number appeared on the screen. He grabbed his desk phone and dialed the number.

“Joe’s,” a low, gruff voice answered.

Tom hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Hi, yeah… I uh, I had a few drinks at your bar a few weeks back and I happened to notice those letters the bartender had gotten.”

“Okay,” the man said impatiently. “So?”

“Oh, well I was just curious, has anyone figured out who that guy is yet?”

“Nope, not to my knowledge, and I own the place. There’s a free t-shirt for anyone that knows who he is though.”

“That’s what I heard,” Tom replied with mock enthusiasm. “By the way, have any more letters arrived lately?”

“Yep, Jeri just got another one today. Same deal as before, a letter and a photo.”

Tom froze in his chair. “Oh really? Would you mind telling me where it came from?”

“Russia this time,
” Joe replied flatly.

“From where in Russia?”

“Oh hell, I don’t know,” Joe replied irritably. “Why are you asking?”

“Well, I think I
might actually know who this guy is,” Tom responded, lying to the bar owner. “But I’d need to know what city he sent that last letter from to be sure.”

There was a brief pause on the line before Joe acquiesced with a loud sigh. “Hold on, I’ve got to walk over there and look. It’s not like I take the time to remember some Russia goddamn city.”

“Thanks,” Tom replied.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe replied sourly. “Let’s see here, it says Ka…
Kaliningrad.”

“You mind spelling that for me?” Tom asked as he picked up his pen.

“K-a-l-i-n-i-n-g-r-a-d. Now is there anything
else
I can do for you?” Joe said sarcastically.

“Do you mind telling the date written on the letter?”

“November 12,” Joe replied tersely, “and if you want to know anything else, you can come down here and look for yourself. We’ve got three dollar beers on tap tonight.”

The line went dead before Tom could respond. He set the phone down and immediately re-opened the global map on the Petronus Energy website. As expected, a red dot was located over the city of Kaliningrad. Without looking at the details, he opened his summary and typed in the newest location.

Kaliningrad, Russia:
     Letter written – 11/12
     Incident - ?

Tom leaned back in his chair and stared again at the short summary with a growing feeling of excitement. Just what the hell had he stumbled onto? He glanced again at his watch. Today was the 1
4th – just two days after the letter had been sent. This obviously meant the author of the letters was sending them express mail.

It also meant something else. If the pattern of deaths was real, and this mysterious letter writer was in fact involved, there was still time to act before another incident occurred in Kaliningrad.

The question that plagued Tom now was the “if” itself. Did any of this actually mean something, or did it mean absolutely nothing at all? From his days in the Phoenix PD, Tom had quickly learned that the biggest errors in any investigation were often caused by the bias and prejudices of the investigator himself. Given enough time and resources, any investigator can find circumstantial evidence against a suspect, but it’s their motivations for doing so that determine the methods and value of what they find. Tom knew that even “good” investigators could be driven by prejudices, even ones they weren’t aware of, while in the pursuit of justice. It was a key reason why investigators almost always worked in teams.

Despite the information that was now staring at him, Tom had to consider whether his own motivations had brought him to this conclusion. After all, he had been looking for a homicidal connection to the mysterious letter writer when he found it. This fact by itself represented a significant bias. He also had to consider the potential consequences for himself. Pursuing an unsanctioned investigation sparked by the drunken rant of an old man and driven merely on a “hunch” could land him in one serious shitpile of trouble.

But his days on the force also taught him to trust his gut, and Tom’s gut told him this situation was different. This wasn’t a coincidence. The circumstances were too well aligned, the odds too far against it. Biased or not, Tom was convinced he knew what he was looking at, and what he saw was the trail of an international killer. He nodded his head as the certainty of it washed over him.

The only question was what to do about it.

Tom knew that if he had any desire to climb the ranks within the Department of Homeland Security, this could easily be his ticket. Of course, he had no such desire – nor any intention – of giving up the most important information he had ever stumbled upon to an organization that would most likely give him a promotion and a pat on the back before kicking him into another life-sucking desk job. On the other hand, not communicating knowledge or information pertaining to criminal – let alone
terrorist
– activity to his superiors was in itself a criminal offense.

Tom stood up from his desk and
began pacing. His office felt even smaller under the droning hum of the fluorescent lights as he moved back and forth considering his next move. He needed to deliver the information to the appropriate authorities quickly before another homicide or “accident” occurred, but he had to find a way to do so in his favor. He continued moving, deep in thought, when suddenly an idea struck him and stopped him in his tracks. He stood motionless for several minutes, his mind turning over the idea, until his mouth slowly curled into a broad grin.

He bolted back to his laptop and opened his email.

Tom’s fingers punched rapid-fire across the keyboard as he glanced at his notes and typed the email he’d quickly composed in his head. Five minutes later, he read the finished draft, fixed a few typos, and hit the “send” button. He then sat back in his chair and smiled at his incredible good fortune.

It was brilliant.
Tom didn’t need to solve the case, or even lead the investigation. He simply needed to spoon-feed the right dose of information to the agency that should be investigating the matter in the first place – the CIA. Of course, if he happened to get noticed for his incredible investigative skills along the way, it certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances of getting back into the agency’s good graces.

Either way, he had nothing to lose.

Tom was still smiling to himself as he shut down his laptop and carefully wiped down his desk with disinfectant.
I’m not such a bad strategist after all
he thought as he flicked off the lights and shut the heavy metal door behind him. He decided a few drinks were in order, and whistled happily as he strolled out of the empty Homeland Security offices and into the cold Flagstaff evening.

“I thought Venezuela was crazy, but this one takes the cake.”

Tall Tommy sat in the sparse cabin of the parked delivery truck and blew quietly on his mug of coffee. Sitting next to him in the driver’s seat and wearing the same crimson-red uniform as his colleague, Dublin shook his head incredulously.

“Yer feckin’ eh right it takes the cake,” he responded with a dour expression. “This is a goddamn suicide mission.”

Both men stared solemnly out the windshield of the
Red Apple Vending
truck, its sides painted in blocky, bright-red Russian, as the pewter-gray morning sky slowly brightened. Across the alley from where they were parked stood a long, windowless two-story brick building flanked by a high steel fence. Like most of the buildings in the old Pregolsky industrial park, the drab building sat unmarked and inconspicuous. The two men poured more coffee from a large thermos and waited patiently.

“There,” Tall Tommy said a few minutes later, pointing with his coffee cup at an approaching van. “That one’s going in.”

They watched closely as the van turned into the building’s service entryway and braked roughly before the gate. The driver rolled down his window and yelled into the small metal intercom beside him, slapping his hand impatiently until the gate opened with a loud metallic groan. The van then sped quickly past the entryway, turning and racing along the long front façade before stopping abruptly at a large gray service door scarred with rust.

“Why is everyone in Russia always in such a damn hurry?” Tall Tommy asked nonchalantly as he watched the driver of the van jump from the cab and quickly walk to the door. Just as he reached it, a short, stocky man with a thick mustache peered out from
behind the door and nodded.

“Russians are not unlike us Irish,” Dublin replied with a sympathetic grin, “we find work to be an unwanted distraction from our true passion, which of course is drinkin’ ourselves into oblivion.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

The two men watched as the driver unloaded several boxes onto a handcart before disappearing into the building. “Okay, I think we have our entry point,” Tall Tommy remarked flatly.

“Dah,” Dublin replied.

Tall Tommy glanced over at his colleague. “I hope to
god you know more Russian than that, Dub. Otherwise we’re fucked.”

Dublin grunted humorlessly as he drank his coffee.

A few minutes later, the driver reappeared at the service door with the mustached man and exchanged a few quick words before climbing back into the van and driving off. The mustached man glanced around quickly before slipping back into the dark interior and shutting the large steel door. Tall Tommy nodded at Dublin.

“Okay, that’s our cue. Are you ready to impersonate an angry, half-drunk Russian? It shouldn’t be too hard considering you’re already an angry, half-drunk Irishman.” 

Dublin smiled back at him. “Spasiba, dolboeb.”

“What the hell did that mean?”

“Thanks, fuckhead.”

“Now see, that’s more like it!” Tall Tommy said with a wide grin as he punched
his colleague in the shoulder. “I feel better already. Now let’s go make some magic!”

Dublin steered the delivery
truck onto the street and accelerated towards the entry gate a few hundred meters ahead. “Just remember,” he said, his normal Irish accent now replaced with heavy Russian. “You’re my Swedish-born co-worker. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit there and look like the fucking Aryan poster-child that you are.”

“A mute Swede. Got it,
” Tall Tommy replied as he adjusted the
Red Apple Vending
cap on his head.

Dublin turned the truck into the service entry and stopped next to the gate. A cold blast of Baltic Sea air blew into the cab as he rolled down the window. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag before slowly leaning his head out
.

“
Dobraye utro,” he grumbled at the intercom as smoke poured from his mouth.

“Yes, good morning,” the gruff, tinny male voice from the intercom responded in Russian. “Pick up or delivery?”

“Delivery,” Dublin replied, matching the petulant tone of the Russian voice. “Vending machine.” He calmly smoked his cigarette as a long moment of silence passed. Finally the heavy entry gate began to open as the intercom crackled to life.

“Main service door,” t
he voice replied tersely.

“Spasiba,
” Dublin responded, flicking his cigarette out the window before rolling it up. He cast a quick look at Tall Tommy as the truck rolled past the gate.

The same mustached man they’d witnessed earlier appeared again as the truck groaned to a halt next to the service door. Tall Tommy stepped down from the cab and smiled stupidly as the man barked out a question in Russian.

“He can’t understand you,” Dublin responded irritably in perfect Russian as he rounded the back of the truck. “My comrade is Swedish.”

“What the fuck is a Swedish brat doing here in Kaliningrad?” the man asked, his small eyes fixed suspiciously on Dublin as Tall Tommy quickly unlocked the back gate of the truck.

“Delivering your fucking vending machine,” Dublin shot back with a sneer.

The stout Russian glared at Dublin, then shrugged and nodded his head. “Yes, of course,” he muttered. He
watched impatiently as the two men quickly unloaded their cargo before gesturing with a petulant wave of his hand for them to follow him into the service room.

Dublin and Tall Tommy quietly followed as instructed.

The massive interior of the service room was cold and poorly lit. Around them, large square frames of rusting steel were haphazardly stacked, and Dublin grimaced at the heavy, garlic-like smell of welding-torch acetylene that filled the room. The mustached Russian led the two men towards a gray, desk-sized device in the corner of the room and then stepped aside and pointed.

“Take it over there,” he ordered.

Dublin and Tall Tommy exchanged a brief look. “What is that?” Dublin asked the Russian as he lit a cigarette and nodded at the machine.
“Scanner,” the Russian replied as he watched them. “Everything that comes in gets scanned for security.”

Tall Tommy rolled the large vending machine up to the scanning device and lowered it gently onto the floor before stepping out of the way. Dublin gave him a quick hand signal as the Russian walked over to the scanner and immediately began typing onto a small keyboard. Tall Tommy nodded and moved quietly towards the Russian.

“So how the hell do you scan something this big?” Dublin asked indifferently as he took a drag of his cigarette. The Russian said nothing as he picked up a small device attached by a cord to the large machine and glanced at a small monitor mounted on top. He then stepped over to the vending machine and began slowly running the handheld scanner across the front.

Tall Tommy took another step towards the Russian.

“Chto za huy,” the Russian grumbled as the image on the small monitor suddenly flickered and went dead. He angrily slapped the handheld device with his palm a few times, then cursed and walked back to the machine. Tall Tommy glanced at Dublin with a questioning look as the Russian punched at the keyboard. Dublin gave him a hint of a smile.

“Is there a problem?” he asked the Russian.

“Fucking thing just died,” the Russian replied gruffly as he continued
punching keys.

“Does this happen often?”

The Russian paused and looked up. “No,” he said as he glared at Dublin.
“Not often.”

Dublin nodded, taking a long final drag of his cigarette. “Are you thirsty?” he asked as he dropped his cigarette butt onto the concrete floor and slowly crushed it under his boot.

“What?” the Russian man replied.

Dublin walked around to the back of the vending machine, unraveled the power cord, and handed it to Tall Tommy to plug into the wall.

“What would you like, comrade?” Dublin asked as the lights on the vending machine flickered to life. The Russian man’s mustache twitched with confusion for a moment before his mouth suddenly drew into a smile.

“Kvass,” he said eagerly as he walked over to Dublin.

“A kvass it is,” Dublin replied as he fed coins into the machine and punched one of the large buttons. Almost immediately, a can of the fermented, mildly alcoholic drink dropped into the dispensing tray.

“Spasiba,” the Russian said as Dublin handed him the drink.

“Pazhalusta,” Dublin replied as he lit another cigarette. “So comrade, since nothing gets in without being scanned, should we sit here and wait for the scanner to fix itself, or should we load the vending machine back into the truck and come back next week?”

The Russian man looked at Dublin and the smiling face of Tall Tommy for a moment before drinking the can of kvass in a single gulp. He crushed the empty can and tossed it at the scanning machine. “Follow me,” he muttered gloomily, oblivious to the foamy traces of kvass still clinging to his mustache. “I will show you where it needs to go.”