Don't Order Dog (33 page)

The more Tom thought about it, the more convinced he was that he was missing something. It was something important, something deeper that connected the dots. Unfortunately, he was now too drunk to figure it out.

He set his beer on the coaster on the coffee table and picked up his laptop. There was only one more thing he needed to do before his meeting with Director Preston. He brought up a search engine and typed a simple, two-word string:

Petronus Dongying

He leaned forward expectantly as the results flashed onto his screen. Tom scanned them anxiously, then nodded as the result he was looking for finally scrolled into view. “Gotcha,” he murmured softly as a smile stretched across his face.
 

∞

“For Christ’s sake… did he have to pick such a heavy rock?” Allie looked up at Jeri with a red-flushed face as she grunted in exertion.

“Just keep pulling, Allie,” Jeri snapped as she pressed her shoulder hard against the weight of the stone. “It’s goin
g to roll over… we just have to lean on it a bit more.”

The two women continued to muscle the stone from its partially-buried position next to the boulder. Finally, after a few coordinated pushes, the ground moaned in submission as the smooth block of granite heaved onto its side.

“Please tell me there’s something under there,” Allie said as she fell backwards, panting heavily.

Jeri let go of the rock and looked into the
void left in the ground. She stared transfixed for a moment before responding. “There is.”

Allie sat up excitedly as Jeri reached down into the hole. An odd metallic sound echoed out as she pulled on a thick leather handle attached to a wide rectangular lid that was flush with the compacted earth. After a second hard pull, the object was
yanked free. Jeri lifted the heavy steel container out of the hole and dropped it onto the ground. She sat back and sighed with nervous exhaustion as her eyes scanned the container’s dark, weathered surface.

“What the hell?” Allie whispered as she stared at the box. “Who put this here, Jeri?”

Jeri looked over at her friend and gave her a faint smile. “My father.”

Allie’s eyes widened in disbelief as
Jeri pulled the container closer and pried at the heavy latch. A cloud of dirt and rust erupted from its surface as it suddenly released. Allie leaned forward inquisitively as she carefully opened the heavy lid, but Jeri raised her hand to stop.

“Give me a second, Allie… please?”

Allie nodded and smiled apologetically. “Sure. I’ll go take a walk.” She stood and looked out at the sharp undulating backs of the mountains in the distance. Beyond them, an ominous wall of curling, blue-gray storm clouds was slowly moving in their direction. “We shouldn’t stay too long, though. The weather up here isn’t going to stay nice for much longer.”

“Just give me five minutes.”

Jeri watched her friend disappear into the meadow before turning her attention back to the container. She could feel her pulse rising as she slowly tilted it forward and peered inside. A stack of leather-bound journals were packed tightly within the container, their spines labeled with numeric dates written in heavy black ink.
I know that handwriting
she thought wistfully as she pulled out the thick journals and carefully piled them on the ground next to her.

Next in the container was a silver case Jeri vaguely recognized, its intricately etched surface tarnished with age. She noticed it was heavy as she pulled it from the box. Placing it on her lap, she released the small clasp and opened the top. She then gasped in surprise.

Resting inside the felt-lined interior was a small handgun, its black metal surface gleaming in the sun. Jeri glanced around nervously to make sure she wasn’t being watched. She stared at the gun apprehensively for a moment before carefully lifting it from the case and tucking it into the inner pocket of her jacket. She then reached into the container and held her breath anxiously as her fingers grasped the last item inside. Although she knew it was the object she’d expected to find, Jeri still felt a surreal sense of disbelief that it existed at all. She pulled it from the box, her eyes already knowing what to expect.

The cover of the thick hardback book was simple in style, as if intended for an academic audience. Its title,
Predictions in the New Business Ecology
, was written in a simple, understated type across the front. Beneath it, the author’s name was etched in small print.

James H. Stone

Jeri stared curiously at the author’s name before steeling herself and flipping the book over. Her breath caught the instant she saw it. On the back was a black-and-white picture of the author sitting at a desk stacked with papers and books. A typewriter was wedged tightly into the space in front of him. He was leaning towards the camera, his young, handsome face flanked by long dark hair as his large, curious eyes smiled from behind a pair of tortoise-shell glasses. Jeri stared into the eyes in the picture as her hand absently traced the outline of his thin form. Until this morning, she had never seen this picture of her father. Until this morning, she didn’t know he had ever written a book.

A feeling of anger suddenly coursed through her as she stared at the picture of her young father. Why hadn’t he told her? What possible reason would he have for keeping a secret like this from the one person in the whole world she thought he told everything? A flood of questions flowed through her, but a single nagging question lurked larger than the rest.

If I didn’t know about this, what else didn’t I know about him?

Jeri fought back the urge to cry as she turned the book over and opened the front cover. As she did, a folded piece of paper slipped out from the between the pages and fell onto her lap. She set the book aside and slowly opened it, immediately recognizing her father’s handwriting.

Dear Jeri,

I’ve spent my life pursuing my passion, and that passion has always been to truly understand this world. Of course, it has never been an easy pursuit, and I’m painfully aware of the sacrifices others have made – perhaps none more than you – to allow me to do this. For this, Jeri, I am unendingly sorry. I’ve often wondered how different our two lives would have been had my passion been something else. But this is irrelevant. We don’t get to choose our passions, my dear. Our passions choose us. 

The journals in this container are a collection of what I
’ve learned in this pursuit. By no means is it any Shakespeare, just quickly scrawled discoveries and revelations I’ve made along the way. But beneath it all lies something significant, a trail I spent most of my early years trying to follow.

A trail to a very dangerous truth.

That truth is the core theme of the book you’re now holding. Next to you, it is undoubtedly my greatest achievement. And yet, only you and a handful of others even know it exists. Once you read it, you will understand why.

My passion chose the first path of my life, but the truth
chose the rest. I had
to bury that early life, including my own name, to protect both of us. Trust me when I tell you that the information and ideas inside the book and journals
are tremendously important. But for now and your own safety,
tell no one they exist.

I’m sorry Jeri. I’m sorry for the sacrifices and the secrets. I kept all of this from you for one simple reason
– to protect you from the burden that the truth may now bring. In time, I promise everything will become clear.

But for now, just remember. G
reat truths are like great treasures.
Sometimes you must keep them buried deep.  

I love you,

Dad

p.s.
Leave the journals. Take the gun.

Jeri slowly folded the note and tucked it back inside the book. For the second time that day a powerful feeling of nausea overwhelmed her. She rolled forward onto her hands and knees waiting for it to pass. A cold wind raced up the mountainside and swept through the meadow, bending the dried blades of field grass into rolling waves of shimmering gold. Jeri tried not to think, tried not to feel anything but the wind as it whipped at her face and hair. A torrent of thoughts and emotions swirled behind some deep inner floodgate, but she calmly forced it to remain shut. After a few minutes the feeling of sickness had subsided. She sat up and turned her attention on the container, carefully repacking the empty silver case and journals in the same order they were found. When she was done
, she closed and latched the heavy top and lowered the container gently back into the hole. Jeri quickly repacked the loose dirt around it, then once again leveraged herself behind the large rock and slowly rolled it back into position. With the rock back in place she swept the area around it with her hands until the ground looked as it did when they arrived. She then looked out across the valley at the approaching storm.

There would be fresh snow on the ground here by tonight.
By tomorrow morning, there would be no sign that anyone was ever here.

Jeri
picked up her father’s book and climbed back onto the large boulder. She spotted Allie at the far edge of the meadow, walking aimlessly through the tall grass as the wind tossed her short blonde hair. Jeri waved at her friend until she was seen, suddenly noticing the weight of the handgun against her chest. She sat down on the rock under the waning rays of sunlight. Next to her, the carving her father made years ago pointed silently towards the buried box.

You always were a clever man, Dad.      

She glanced down again at her father’s image on the back cover of the book. A sudden curiosity gripped her. She pulled the Polaroid from the latest letter from her pocket and studied it carefully. The photo appeared to have been taken in a narrow corridor between two stark, featureless concrete buildings. The daylight fell bleakly into the corridor, painting everything in a palette of dull, muted colors. In the center of the photo, Jeri’s letter writer stood alive and well – his thin, muscled physique clad in a crisp new Joe’s Last Stand t-shirt. As always, his face was hidden, this time by an object he held out in front of him. Jeri stared at the object, keenly aware that it was meant to be the focus of her attention.

It was a
n open copy of her father’s book.  

She flipped the Polaroid over and again read the precisely scribed note written on the back. 

I read your father’s book, Jeri.
Brilliant guy
. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all, though I admit I have no idea what that saying really means.

By the way, I’m coming to Flagstaff. You’d better be there when I arrive, or there will be blood on the ceiling and skin on the walls.

Don’t say it, Jeri. I already know.

“So what was inside?”
Jeri jumped at the sound of Allie’s voice. Her friend stood staring up at her from the base of the rock. She quickly tucked the Polaroid into her jacket pocket and held up the book. “Exactly what I expected.”

Allie glanced at the book and n
odded. “Anything else?”

Jeri stood on the boulder looked out at the view. Sunset Crater stood placidly in the distance, its disfigured peak exactly as she remembered since the day she’d sat in this same spot with her father. Above it, storm clouds rolled and darkened, dwarfing the mountain as they moved ominously closer.  She watched them approached for a moment, then jumped off the rock and smiled somberly at Allie.

“Nope. Let’s go home.”

“Have you read it, Richard?”

The earnest voice of Jack Preston echoed hollowly from the speaker phone in HSI Director Richard Connolly’s office. Next to the phone, a lit cigarette dangled on the edge of a large crystal ashtray.

“I have,” Connolly
mumbled. He pressed his yellow-stained fingers against the two-page transcript lying on his desk and slid it towards his thin body slumped forward in the chair. “It’s rather interesting.”

“Interesting?” Preston replied, his voice incredulous. “It’s a goddamn miracle.”

Connolly grunted skeptically. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jack.”
He took a deep drag of his cigarette and looked over the transcript again.

Murstead:                            Agent Murstead.

Coleman:
                            Alex, it’s Tom.

Murstead:
                            Happy Holidays, Tom.

Coleman:
                            Right. Hey look, we need to talk.

Murstead:
                            About what?

Coleman:
              I want to let Jack Preston and the Department in on
the investigation.

Murstead:
                            What investigation is that?

Coleman:
                            Don’t be a prick, Alex.

Murstead:
              Now why in the hell would you want to do that?
The case is closed. You know that as well as I do.

Coleman:
              I have reason to believe that it isn’t. In fact, I have
reason to believe our terrorist is still alive.

Murstead:
              (Laughter) Jesus Christ Tom! I knew you were gonna pull something like this again. Some new conspiracy theory, some new bullshit angle to try and get back into the agency. I just didn’t think you were stupid enough to try again so soon. 

Coleman:
              No offense, Alex, but after seeing firsthand how sloppy the CIA is at running a fucking investigation, not to mention a covert mission that kills two innocent people and lets the real target get away, I think I’m much better off staying with the team I started with.

Murstead:
              (Pause) What possible reason could you have for believing our target got away? You saw what was left of him in that hotel room just like the rest of us. For fuck sake, you were the one who identified him, Tom! If that wasn’t him, then who the fuck was it?

Coleman:
              I have no idea, but I’m now sure it wasn’t him, Alex. Our terrorist is still alive, which means we’re dealing with a killer who’s a hell of a lot smarter than either one of us. It also means you need to reopen the investigation immediately, but this time you need to open it to Preston and the Department of Homeland Security. This thing is too big for one agency.

Murstead:
              Tell me, what are you after this time, Tom? If it’s not a spot in the agency, what could you possibly hope to accomplish with this fucking story?

Coleman:
              Fuck you, Alex. For once, could you try to see past your own ego and admit you might have made a mistake? Our friend is still out there, and he’s going to continue to kill off Petronus employees and god knows who else until he’s stopped. Reopen the fucking investigation!

Murstead:
              No Tom, I won’t. This investigation, like this conversation, is over. Furthermore, let me remind you of the documents you signed the night this case came to an end. You say one word to Jack Preston about the details of the investigation, and I promise you that my agents will be picking little pieces of you out of a burned out hotel room too.

Coleman:
              He’s not dead, Alex.

Murstead:
              No? Then tell me – where he’s going to kill next?

Coleman:
              China.

Murstead:
              (Pause) Where in China?

Coleman:
              Reopen the investigation and I’ll tell you.

Murstead:
              Go fuck yourself, Tom. Where in China?

Coleman:
              Fuck you,
brother-in-law
. You heard my conditions. Of course, I suppose you could show up here and put a gun to my back like last time and force the information from me. 

Murstead:
              You’re unbelievable Tom. I never realized just how much of a low-life conniving scumbag you really are. You’ve got nothing – absolutely nothing – and yet you’re still trying to pull yourself out of the giant shithole you’ve created for yourself. Family or not, I’m done with you. I’ve heard your conditions. Now you’re gonna hear mine. If you call here again, I’ll have you arrested and invent enough charges to keep you locked away until you can’t remember what a shower feels like without being sodomized. If you talk to Preston about the investigation, don’t even bother listening for the knock on the door. Do you understand me?

Coleman:
              You can’t be serious.

Murstead:
              Goodbye Tom.
(Phone disconnects)       

Coleman:
              Alex? (Pause) Alex? Fuck!
(Loud banging noise)
----- END OF TRANSCRIPT -----

Director Connolly snuffed out his cigarette and eased back into the soft leather of his chair. He glanced absently at the countless framed photos of himself and various celebrities and heads of state hanging on the wall across from him. When he spoke, his gravelly, southern-accented voice was slow and deliberate.

“So how do you intend to handle this, Jack?”

“I intend to drag Agent Coleman into my office tomorrow and find out what he knows,” Preston replied earnestly. “If he knows what I think he knows, then we’re back in the game.”

Connolly looked impatiently at the speaker phone. “He obviously knows something. He wouldn’t have mentioned China if he didn’t. Whether or not it’s
of any value to us is the real question. Either way, you won’t need to drag him
into your office to find out. I suspect he’ll be waiting for you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“What makes you think he would do that?” Preston asked, his tone skeptical.

“Because he has nowhere else to go,” Connolly replied, pausing to light another cigarette. “And if I were you, Jack, I’d call attention to that fact when you talk to him. Coleman needs to realize we’re the only family he has left.”

“Right.”

“How’s your man in Beijing?” Connolly asked.    

Preston hesitated briefly before answering. “He’s fine. Focused on finding these guys like the rest of us.”

“I’m sure he is. Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. If he’s anything like Coleman, who knows what could happen. Reconnaissance only, correct?”

Preston nodded. “Correct.”

Connolly stared thoughtfully at the thin trail of smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He shook his head and took another deep drag. “Call me immediately after your conversation with Agent Coleman.”

“Will do,” Preston replied.

“And Jack, don’t fuck this up.”

Connolly clicked off the speaker phone before Preston could respond. H
e pushed the transcript into a thin folder titled “Coleman, Tom/ICE-West” and turned his attention to another document lying on his desk. Embossed at the top of the page was a familiar seal. Connolly sighed exhaustedly as he looked it over. In three days he would be speaking to the House regarding budget appropriations and the future role of the HSI – the intelligence and investigations arm of Homeland Security that he effectively commanded. Of course, he knew he’d have no problem winning over the Congressional members he’d be appearing before. All it took was the right mix of humble intelligence and passion for the cause – served up in his charming southern accent. A few hours of political wrangling, followed by some easily deflectable questions, and a large chunk of ICE’s more than seven billion-dollar annual budget would once again be secured.

But behind his outward appearance of absolute confidence, he was feeling increasingly nervous.

He knew this terrorist situation had the potential to be a huge victory for the Department, and a political windfall for himself once knowledge of his deft handling of the incident was circulated through the appropriate channels
.
The fallout from the CIA’s presumed mishandling of the investigation would be just more icing on the cake.
Christ, I could have the pick of the litter in Intelligence appointments when this is all done
Connolly thought smugly as he smiled and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

But his smile quickly faded as his nagging sense of nervousness returned. There was another possible outcome to consider as well – one that ended in disaster if the situation were left solely in the hands of Preston and his rogue idiot in China. Connolly grunted irritably at the thought. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

A contingency plan is always required.

Connolly produced a small key from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. There, lying by itself was a small Moleskine notebook. He quickly removed it and flipped through the thick lined pages, pausing on a page containing a long sequence of numbers. A fleeting feeling of nostalgia from his days with the National Security Agency passed through
him as he scanned the numbers, his mind quickly decoding the embedded pattern to the information. He quickly jotted down a number as he read. When he was finished, he returned the notebook to its drawer and immediately relocked it. Grabbing the phone on his desk, he punched in a code for a secure line and entered the string of numbers he’d written down. He took a patient drag of his cigarette as a series of authentication clicks echoed in the handset. A few seconds later, a deep, authoritative voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Code in please,
” the voice demanded bluntly

Connolly tapped the ash from his cigarette and spoke slowly into the phone.
“Connolly 209-4736-07913.”

“Hold please.”

Connolly again felt a twinge of nostalgia as he waited. It had been a long time since he’d ‘coded in’, and he suddenly wondered if his clearance still held. He thought the feeling was oddly similar to calling one’s bank to find out if anything were left in a long-forgotten account.

The line echoed with a second series of clicks, followed by the same male voice. “Code-in verified. How may I help you, sir?”

Connolly took a final drag of his cigarette and smiled into the phone.
“Korean Field Office, please.”