Don't Order Dog (34 page)

He was done.

He stripped off his latex gloves and stepped out on the balcony. The sky above him was a featureless dome of ash-colored clouds. A short distance away, dark smudges of rain fell onto the endless rows of concrete apartment buildings and stained them in deeper tones of gray. He stretched his arms and took a deep breath. The acrid air of the city filled his lungs like an unwelcomed drug. He let the morning chill wake him, then silently stepped back inside.

The only empty piece of furniture in the dingy, one-room apartment was a bright red futon made of imitation leather. He sat down and lit a cigarette as his eyes fell back to his work. Sitting opposite the futon on a matching red chair, the package stared lifelessly back at him. He studied it carefully, examining it with a critical eye before slowly nodding his approval. He then pulled out his phone and sent a brief message. A few seconds later his phone buzzed in response.

I’ll be there in five minutes. 

He read the message from Tall Tommy, then yawned and shoved his phone into his pocket. As he did, his hand met the sharp edge of a folded piece of paper. His fingers stroked it curiously for a moment before he remembered what it was and pulled it out with a knowing sigh. The single sheet of stationary seemed to glow in the soft light as he unfolded it. He looked at it closely, admiring the sweeping feminine curves of handwriting that covered both sides as he slowly reading it again. Once again his mouth formed into a grin. When he was finished, he carefully refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket.

The fake leather futon felt cold against his neck as he sat back and stared absently at the package. His stomach groaned with hunger, but he ignored it. His thoughts were still on her as he sat in the small strange apartment, waiting for the knock on the door. He wondered what she would think of him when it was over. He wondered if she would accept what had been done.

More than anything, he wondered if she would forgive him
for what he was about to do.
 

Tom Coleman paced quickly through the Immigration and Customs Enforcement
office, nodding curtly to the few familiar faces that looked up as he passed. He strolled by the door to his office without so much as a glance and stepped into the elevator. Once on the executive floor, he walked directly to the corner office of the Western Division Director and stopped at the desk of his assistant. A plump, middle-aged woman with short red hair and thick mascara turned and stared at him dully.

“Is the Director going to be in today?” Tom asked curtly. His eyes flashed anxiously at Preston’s door.

“He’s actually in now,” the assistant answered. “Do you have an appointment with him?”

“Yes. Well, no. Just tell him Agent Coleman is here to see him,” Tom replied. He waited patiently as the assistant finishing typing on her computer and picked up the phone. A moment later she hung up and gave him a surprised nod.

“You’re in luck, Agent Coleman. The Director said he can see you now. Please go on in.”

Tom thanked her as he passed, certain that luck had nothing to do with being granted his unannounced meeting. He opened the door to Preston’s office and immediately stopped. A nauseating mixture of stale cigar smoke and expensive cologne hung in the air. He glanced around at the lavishly furnished office before noticing the large antique-looking desk in the corner. There, hunched in his dark leather chair, Preston stared back at him with a grim face.

“Agent Coleman,” Preston said flatly without moving. “What brings you back to your old employer?”

Tom stopped in front of Preston’s desk and gave him a plaintive star
e. He was quietly thankful the Director didn’t extend his hand. He hated the physical contact of a handshake, especially this time of year. The human hand was a fucking petri dish of cold and flu viruses.

“Information, Director,” he replied earnestly. “And also an apology.”

Preston leaned back in his chair as he motioned Tom to take a seat. “What kind of information?” he asked, an obvious tone of skepticism in his voice.

Tom sat down across from the Director and pulled out a thick folder. He took a slow breath and focused on the speech he had practiced several times the night before as well as on the drive over.

“I’ll get to that in a moment sir, but first of all I want to apologize for the way I acted the last time we talked. As you know, for legal reasons I’m not able to discuss my assistance with the investigation that Agent Murstead and his team were carrying out. But let me be clear about one thing – it was never my intention to keep you or anyone in this team in the dark. I was simply following strict orders from the CIA not to discuss it, and they made it very clear what would happen to me if I didn’t comply.” He paused and pretended to search for the right words. “I only hope that this situation hasn’t destroyed my opportunity to continue working with you and the Department, sir.”

Jack Preston looked at Tom with a somber expression before spinning his chair around and gazing at the winter landscape outside his window. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and soft. “When you’ve been in the intelligence community as long as I have, you come to realize a few things. One of the first is that every agency but your
own seems to have a monopoly on the best and brightest talent… and the same thing goes for luck. Of course, if you haven’t figured out that luck plays a huge part in our business, then you’re just a complete goddamn idiot.”

He spun around and fixed his dark green eyes on Tom.

“You also learn that the only way to make any headway against the fanatics seeking to destroy our little patch of democracy in this fucked-up world is by putting your trust in the team of people who swore to defend against them. Up until a few weeks ago, Tom, I thought you were a dedicated member of this team. But your recent side job with the CIA has forced me reevaluate your loyalties, and it’s gonna take a helluva lot more than an apology to make me think otherwise. Do you understand?”

Tom nodded his head silently. 

“You’re a damn good investigator, Tom. Certainly much better than your pay grade might suggest. But I’ll be damned if you don’t keep stepping on your own dick with this fucking dream of being a CIA agent.” Preston leaned forward and pointed his freckled hand at Tom, his eyes wide. “I only hope this last little taste finally set you straight, because truth be told, your brother-in-law royally fucked you. Not that I’m surprised. That’s the way they do things at Langley. Christ, just imagine what he might have done if you two weren’t actually family.” He waved his hands dismissively and sat back in his chair. “Anyway, I’m not here to give you a fucking sermon. But if you still want to be a part of this team, you’ve got a shitload of rebuilding to do.”

Tom nodded and allowed his stony expression to relax with a hint of relief.
“I intend to do just that, sir.”

Preston eyed him keenly. “And how do you intend to start?”

Tom leaned forward and tossed the thick manila folder onto Preston’s desk.
“By giving you full disclosure.”

The Director looked at him suspiciously before casually flipping open the folder. “What’s this?”

“As I said sir, for legal reasons, I can’t verbally discuss the details of the investigation I assisted Agent Murstead with. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to see the personal notes I might have left lying around my office while assisting our fellow agency, correct?” He looked up and gave Preston a conspiratorial grin. “After all, anything I placed in my ICE files, regardless of the materials, would technically be the legal property of the Department if I’m not mistaken.”

Preston smiled back. “That would be correct…
technically
.”

Tom stood up from his chair and walked towards the window. The Director’s corner vantage looked out over the large parking lot of the Flagstaff field office
, its black pavement now covered in a thin blanket of white snow. He instinctively scanned the parked cars for a maroon sedan.
This shit can drive you fucking crazy
he thought as he shook his head and faced Preston. 

“What you’re holding
in your hands is a summary of a terrorist investigation that Agent Murstead and the CIA now consider closed.
Corporate terrorism
to be precise.” Tom reached forward and grabbed the folder from the Director’s hands. “However, as of yesterday, I have new evidence that strongly suggests the terrorist at the center of this investigation is not dead. Furthermore, if this man’s pattern holds true, an employee of the Petronus Energy Corporation is in imminent danger of being murdered in the next few days.”

Tom quickly summarized the murders of the previous four Petronus employees to the Director as he pulled their incident reports from the folder and tossed them on his desk. He then pulled out a printed copy of one of the Polaroid photos of the man from the letters and laid it on top of the pile.

“Now, I don’t pretend to have your level of expertise in how to deal with matters of international terrorism, Director. But I can only imagine how grateful our government and the international community would be, not to mention one of the world’s largest corporations, if the Department of Homeland Security managed to finish what the CIA started. Or should I say
corrected their mistake
?” He dropped the entire folder back onto Preston’s desk. “But we don’t have much time.”

Jack Preston studied the obscured image of the man in the
photo for a moment before looking up at Tom with a solemn expression. “So where is he now?”

“China
,” Tom replied without hesitation. “A coastal city in the north called Dongying. Petronus has a major oil refinery there, as well as a research facility.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, flipped to a page, and tossed it onto Preston’s desk. “That’s his last known address.”

The Director glanced at the notepad for a moment before glancing up
at Tom. “And the CIA doesn’t have this information?”

“No sir.”

A grin parted Preston’s thin lips as he spoke. “Well then… welcome back to the team, Agent Coleman.”

∞

“I thought you were staying clear of this place for a few days,” Chip said as Jeri strolled through the door of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon.

“I thought you were going to do the same,” Jeri replied as she stepped up to the bar and dropped a sealed envelope onto the counter.

Chip shrugged. “Old habits die hard,” he muttered, pointing at the envelope. “What have you got there?”

Jeri ignored his question and glanced around the bar. “Where’s Joe?”

“He just left to grab some lunch. I told him I’d stay here and tend the bar in the rare event that someone else walked in for a drink at this hour. He’ll be back in a few minutes. Sit down and keep me company.”

Jeri shook her head and smiled softly, her brown eyes hinting sadness. “Maybe another time.”

The older man narrowed his eyes on her suspiciously. “What’s this about, Jeri?”

“This about you winning, Chip,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I’m finally taking your advice. All this time you’ve been telling me I need to move on. Well, I woke up this morning and realized you were right.” She tapped her finger on the envelope. “I know a formal letter of resignation is a little overkill for a bartending job, but I thought Joe deserved it.”

Chip stared at the envelope with shock. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, his face slowly composing into a smile. “Are you serious?”

“S
erious as a heart attack,” Jeri replied as she turned and headed for the door.

“Don’t you want to wait for Joe?” Chip asked, watching her leave.

“I think it’s better if he hears it from you. Just make sure he gets my letter.”

“I will. So, Jeri–” Chip said earnestly, forcing her to stop and look back. “When’s your last day?”

“Tomorrow,” Jeri replied. “Just enough time for everyone to say their goodbyes and for Joe to work out the schedule.” She glanced over at the shrine of letters and photos still hanging on the wall and shrugged. “And who knows… maybe he’ll just keep writing letters to the next bartender?” She gave him a quick wave before slipping through the doorway and into the wintry Flagstaff morning.

As he watched her disappear, Chip sipped his beer in the empty saloon and quietly answ
ered her question.

“I don’t think so.”

∞
 

Jack Preston finished reading the five-page investigation summary Tom had given him and dropped it on his desk. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before staring dumbfounded at Tom. “This is unbelievable,
Agent Coleman,” he said quietly. “I mean un-
fucking
-believable.”

From his chair across from the Director, Tom smiled and nodded his head.
“Yes, sir… it is unbelievable. But it’s all true.”

Preston picked up the thick stack of supporting documents Tom had included with his summary and absently thumbed through the pages. He flipped past the photocopies of the letters and Polaroid pictures and stopped when he came to a photo of Jeri that Tom had taken at the bar. “So this is her, huh?” he asked as he pulled it out and studied it. “Our pretty little bartender at the center of this mess?”

“Yes sir,” Tom replied. “Her name is Jeri Halston. Twenty-six years-old… single… a graduate of the university. I’ve included a brief bio and background summary in the file. But honestly, I don’t think it’s worth your time to read it.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Because we have more important information to act upon, sir,” Tom replied, surprised that he needed to spell out this fact to the Director.  “We have the location of the man – the
terrorist
– who’s killing these researchers, and we have a legitimate opportunity to stop him.” He leaned forward and gave the Director an emphatic look. “But as I’ve already said, sir, we need to act quickly.”

“I understand that,” Preston replied irritably. He wasn’t about to rev
eal that he’d already sent another agent – Coleman’s own colleague no less – to handle the situation in China. That would only lead to questions, and the last thing Preston needed right now was for Coleman to find out his conversations with Murstead had been recorded. If nearly three decades of intelligence work had taught him anything, it was that full disclosure only worked when it flowed
up
the chain of command, not down.

“I’ll handle getting resources to Dongying,” the Director said as he shoved the photo back into the file and closed it. “You focus on figuring out what Miss Halston is really up to.”

Tom gave the Director a surprised look. “I beg your pardon, sir?” he replied.

“I may be coming into this investigation a little late,
Agent Coleman, but of all the implausible pieces to this situation – and god knows there are plenty of them – the most implausible of all would be to think that the person receiving these letters isn’t somehow involved. You even speculated in your summary that the letters may contain coded messages for someone in Flagstaff who’s affiliated with this terrorist group, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“So isn’t it reasonable to assume that those messages were intended for the recipient of the letters herself?”