Don't Order Dog (39 page)

“Be careful of what you believe to be the truth, Director. The only thing I’ve
done
is expose the fact that you sent an innocent man to his death this morning. If there’s anyone you should be pursuing right now, it’s the person who initiated the murder of your agent. As far as what I’m
capable of
, well… do any of us really know our full potential?”

Preston looked again at his watch. Almost three minutes on the signal trace; certainly his team had pinpointed their exact location by now. They should have also collected enough audio to run a full vocal analysis. Within the hour they could have a voiceprint of the man distributed to every governmental agency in the free world if necessary. Preston knew it probably wouldn’t be enough to catch him, at least not in the short-run, but that hardly mattered right now.

Solving the case was no longer his primary objective.

The only thing that now mattered was pinning all responsibility for this atrocious situation on HSI Director Connolly and, with any luck, saving his own ass. Preston considered this as he spoke into the phone.  

“I can assure you that whoever is responsible for the actions leading to Agent Martin’s death will face justice,” he replied. “I can also assure you if you kill that American soldier or the Petronus employee we both know you’re there to execute, there will be no limit to the resources brought forth by the American government to bring you to justice. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’m afraid you’re operating under the wrong assumptions once again, Director,” the man replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to discuss those details right now. The Chinese authorities will be here soon, and I want to make sure that Sergeant Kearney is appropriately prepared for their arrival. Personally, I don’t think they’ll be too upset over the death of Agent Martin. But the man sitting here with four of the sergeant’s bullets in his chest is another matter entirely.”

Preston paused. He’d assumed the second man the sergeant had shot was the tall blonde-haired man Agent Martin had lost in Beijing. But if not him, then who was he? Another wave of dread washed over him as he considered the next logical possibility.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“I believe the authorities here will identify him as one Dr. Chung Zhu, a highly regarded forty-seven year old chemical engineer who, until being abducted from his home two nights earlier, was the head of research for Petronus Energy’s operations in northern China. Unfortunately, it appears Dr. Zhu has suffered from a fair amount of torture over these last few days. Both of his hands have been horribly smashed, his fingers mutilated. Even the poor man’s teeth have been pulled out, no doubt in some sadistic way designed to force him to talk. We can only hope the sergeant’s well-placed shots to the doctor’s chest brought a quick end to his misery.”

The Director dropped his elbows onto the desk and rested his head dejectedly in his hands, the cellphone still pressed against his ear.
This couldn’t get any worse
he thought as his office door suddenly opened and the round face of his assistant Julie appeared in the entry way. He gave her a wary stare as she shuffled towards his desk, a piece of notepaper poised in her plump hand. He snatched it from her and quickly read the brief message.

Signal trace attempts failed - cannot establish or confirm coordinates of location.

Preston pressed his hand over the mouthpiece of his cellphone and screamed out loud.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Is there
anyone
on this goddamn team that can do their fucking job?”

He waved an angry hand
and Julie abruptly turned and marched out of his office, her head hung submissively as she closed the door behind her. Preston jumped up from his chair and loosened his tie. The air in his office suddenly felt stifling. He moved to the window and rested his pale, freckled head against the cold pane of glass. He then closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

“Are you still there?” the man asked politely. 

“I’m here,” Preston replied flatly, fighting an overwhelming urge to end the call. What else was there to discuss? In just a few short minutes the man on the other end of the line had managed to effectively destroy his career. In the next few hours the US would become embroiled in a diplomatic shit-storm involving two American operatives and a murdered Chinese scientist – and he’d be squarely stuck in the middle of it. For the first time in his thirty-plus years of service, Jack Preston felt utterly and hopelessly outmatched. He spoke slowly into the phone.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You see, Director, therein lies the problem. You ask me
why
I’m doing this, but you don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“Then what exactly are you doing?”

“Exposing weakness.”

“In what?”

“In you,” the man replied calmly. “But anyway, by now I’m sure you’ve been told the trace on this call was unsuccessful. Unfortunately, the recording of my voice won’t be of much use either. I only wish things had ended differently this morning, Director. I’m sure Agent Martin didn’t deserve his punishment. As for the rest of you, I doubt it will be enough.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. Goodbye, Director. And good luck.”

The line went dead.
Preston cursed softly and turned from the window, tossing his phone onto the desk before collapsing into his chair. He sat quietly, replaying fragments of the conversation in his mind. A few minutes later, he sat up and carefully straightened his tie.

There was only one thing left to do.

He picked up the phone and dialed Julie.

“Yes Director?” his assistant answered timidly.

“Julie, I’d like to apologize for my outburst a few minutes ago.”

“It’s fine sir.”

“No, it’s not. Luckily for you, you probably won’t have to put up with me for much longer.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Please get me the State Department immediately.”

Alex Murstead barely noticed the cold morning wind that blew along C Street as he stepped from his car and glanced up at his destination. The exterior of the Harry S Truman building stood ominously under a gray Washington sky. He crossed the intersection at the building’s south entrance and presented his credentials to the guard. The guard studied his solemn face and quickly checked his credentials against a computer screen before waving him through. Alex marched past the guard station towards the entrance, staring once more at the massive limestone-clad façade that housed some of the country’s most powerful offices. Waiting just a few steps inside the large entryway, an attractive thirty-something woman in a tailored gray suit smiled and walked over to him.

“Agent Murstead?”

“Yes.”

“Good morning,” the woman replied, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m Susan Baker, Deputy Secretary McCarthy’s assistant. Would you follow me
, please?” 

Alex nodded silently. He glanced apprehensively at the large seal of the United States State Department that hung in the center of the lobby as they walked towards an awaiting elevator. Once on the third floor, the
Deputy Secretary’s assistant led him through another security checkpoint. A badge with Alex’s name and clearance level was pinned to his shirt by a guard before the two continued via a second secured elevator to the seventh floor. Once there, he followed her down a long hallway of closed-door offices and meeting rooms. At the end of the hallway, the assistant paused and pointed to a small waiting room.

“If you don’t mind waiting in there, the Deputy Secre
tary should be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Alex replied, glancing around apprehensively. The woman gave him a thin practiced smile as she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Alex stepped into the waiting room and absently noted the antique furnishings and a large, expensive-looking oil painting of old ships battling at sea. The other walls were covered with the décor de rigor of Washington – pictures of powerful people shaking hands with other powerful people. He was just starting to sit down when a door adjoining the room opened and a slight, thin-frame woman with short gray hair and a severe expression appeared.

“Agent Murstead?” Deputy Secretary Rose McCarthy asked curtly.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Let’s talk,” McCarthy replied as she turned and walked back into her office. 

“Happy holidays, Deputy Secretary,” Alex said warmly as he followed her into the large office. The Deputy Secretary silently pointed him to the chair opposite her desk as she settled back into her own chair. She stared across the desk at him with a serious, calculating look.

“I wish that were true
, agent.”

“I’m sorry to hear that it isn’t, ma’am,” Alex replied as he sat down across from her. His fear that this unscheduled and
highly urgent meeting with the Deputy Secretary wasn’t going to be pleasant seemed to be coming true. Even more alarming was the fact that Alex didn’t know what he was here to discuss. He decided to tread lightly until the Deputy Secretary explained herself.

“How may I be of service to you?” he asked earnestly.

The Deputy Secretary seemed to consider his question for a moment as her dark, intelligent eyes studied his face. “Do you know anything about the history of the Deputy Secretary’s role at the State Department, Agent Murstead?” she asked with a cold, smug tone.

“No ma’am, I’m afraid I do not,” Alex replied. “Please, call me Alex.”

“The position, Agent Murstead, didn’t exist until the Nixon administration. Before then, most daily matters of the State Department were handled by the Under Secretary. But by the early 1970’s the rest of the world had started to grow up. And as most parents will tell you, the path to any child’s adulthood is usually marked by a long and troubled adolescence. Our government suddenly found itself embroiled in the growing complexities of international affairs – the Cold War, Vietnam, the stirrings of unrest in the Middle East. Places most American’s couldn’t even find on a map were suddenly demanding ever more attention and persuasion. So our government did what all governments do best. We created yet another layer of bureaucracy to deal with it. And with that,” McCarthy suddenly snapped her finger. “The role of Deputy Secretary of State was born.”

She paused and gave him a cynical smile.

“Of course, in this town, those of us who sit behind desks with mid-level titles on them know damn well that any new layer of bureaucracy isn’t created to solve problems. It’s created to provide a political scapegoat for the top brass when the shit hits the fan.” McCarthy leaned forward and narrowed her dark eyes on Alex. “And let me just tell you, Agent Murstead – a
lot
of shit hits the fan around here.” 

“I imagine it does, Deputy Secretary.”

“Twenty-four months. That’s the average tenure of anyone who’s ever sat in this chair. Certainly some have been here longer when matters of diplomacy were relatively easy, just as some have been here less when matters of diplomacy required something… well, something less than diplomatic. Do I make myself clear, Agent Murstead?”

“By all means, Deputy Secretary
,” Alex replied.

“Good. Then you understand I have no intention of allowing poorly handled affairs by our country’s security agencies to jeopardize my stay in this chair.”   

“Yes ma’am.”

The Deputy Secretary gave Alex a cold stare. “We have a situation in China,” she said flatly, putting on a pair of reading glasses. She opened a thick file emblazoned with the State Department seal. The word ‘Classified’ was stamped across the front in bold red letters. “Our Beijing Embassy was provided this information late last night.” McCarthy pulled out the first page from the file and began reading.

“Yesterday morning at approximately 8am local time, local authorities were notified of gunfire at a workers dormitory in the city of Dongying’s industrial district. When authorities arrived at the scene, they found an armed and incoherent US military sergeant by the name of Andrew Kearney standing over the bodies of two men. One of the bodies is believed to be that of a Chinese scientist named Chung Zhu, who had been reported missing a few days prior. His body indicates evidence of brutal torture, including several gunshots to the chest which, while not confirmed, Chinese authorities believe match our military officer’s handgun.”

McCarthy quickly flipped to the next page of the report.

“The second body is believed to be that of an American named Rick Martin. Martin was found with two bullet wounds from a high-powered rifle. An examination of Martin’s body produced two items worthy of mention – a compact .22-caliber handgun in his right hand, and a Polaroid photo of the slain Zhu in his coat pocket. Chinese authorities also found a high-powered military sniper rifle on the rooftop of the nearest dormitory building in the compound. The fingerprints on the rifle match those of Sergeant Kearney.”

The Deputy Secretary dropped the report and gazed over her reading glasses at Alex. “Martin was an agent for the Department of Homeland Security.”  

Alex’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm. “With all due respect, ma’am, that sounds rather unbelievable.”

The Deputy Secretary raised her index finger. “Ah, but this story gets even better, Agent Murstead. You see, last night, about four hours before this nightmare officially landed on my desk, I received a call from Jack Preston, the Department of Homeland Security’s Western Divisional Director. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, Director Preston dropped something of a bombshell on me. He admitted to grossly violating protocol and sending one of his agents – Agent Martin as it turns out – on a little field trip to Dongying. Apparently he’d been sent to monitor one or possibly two men Preston believed were part of a terrorist cell that, according to him, have been assassinating employees of the Petronus Energy Corporation.”

The mention of Petronus Energy suddenly brought Alex to full alert. He nervously adjusted himself in his chair as the Deputy Secretary continued.

“Preston told me he had attempted to call Agent Martin yesterday morning for a progress report when an unknown man answered the agent’s phone. Now, I could attempt to explain the nature of that conversation, but I think it would be much better if you just listened to it yourself.”

“It was recorded?” Alex asked, his apprehension growing.

The Deputy Secretary nodded. “Preston at least had the presence of mind to have his team record the call,” she replied dryly as she opened the audio file on her laptop. “We’ve determined that the recording began approximately 30 seconds into the call. Other than that, there’s nothing I can tell you that you won’t hear for yourself.” She punched a key and started the audio file.       

Alex listened in stunned silence to Preston’s recorded call with the unknown man and U.S. Army Sergeant Kearney.
How was this possible?
he wondered. How could the same terrorist target his SOG agents supposedly neutralized in Amsterdam still be alive? His men were the best trained team in the world. They’d made visual contact of him going into the hotel. They’d swept the entire building. For god’s sake, they’d sifted through what was left of him in his hotel room!

When it was over, McCarthy closed the audio file and stared at him expectantly. “Are you starting to get a sense of the scale of this problem, Agent?”

Alex nodded silently.

“Our own analysis of the audio file confirms that Sergeant Kearney is indeed who he says he is,” McCarthy continued. “Vocal analysis also leads us to believe that he was under the influence of some form of truth-inducing agent, most likely given to him by this other man who, as of now, still remains a mystery. Of course, diplomatically speaking, he’s a non-entity. As far as the Chinese are concerned, this mystery man doesn’t exist. All evidence in the killings of both men points directly to Sergeant Kearney. Unfortunately, whatever that poor bastard was given must have done the trick, because according to the interrogation report he doesn’t remember a goddamn thing.” She shrugged in exasperation.

“This situation is truly incredible, Deputy Secretary,” Alex replied, quickly composing himself. “Unfortunately, I don’t see how this matter pertains to me.”

The Deputy Secretary stared at him for a long moment. “I had a feeling you might say that, Agent Murstead,” she replied with a disappointed tone. “There was another piece of evidence discovered in the apartment that Chinese authorities found rather peculiar. It may in fact be the only reason why they’ve chosen to share this information with us at all.” She slowly removed a photo from the file before closing it and returning it to a drawer in her desk.

“What evidence is that?” Alex asked, an edge of apprehension in his voice.

“A small box was
found in the lap of Zhu’s body,” the Deputy Director answered as she studied the photo. “We assume it was placed there by the unknown man who spoke to Preston. Of course, we can’t verify that.” The Deputy Secretary slid the photo across her desk. “This is what was found when they opened it.”

Alex could feel the Deputy Secretary’s eyes on him as he picked up the photo. The image showed a small cardboard box with the top removed. Inside was a neatly pressed and folded blue t-shirt, a familiar logo printed across the front. Lying on top of the shirt was a small piece of n
otepaper with a precisely written message clearly visible in the photo.

For Agent Alex Murstead –
Sorry we missed each other in Amsterdam.

The Deputy Secretary lifted her small frame from the chair and walked
slowly over to the window. In the distance, the Lincoln Memorial stood somberly against the lifeless winter landscape of the National Mall. She spoke quietly as she stared out at the view. “Now, before you start piecing together your bullshit defense, let me just assure you that I have no interest in hearing your side of the story. At least not now.” She turned and looked at him coldly. “There’s one more wrinkle in this situation you may or may not be aware of. Jack Preston is convinced that the supposed NSA source who initiated Sergeant Kearney’s mission was none other than Homeland Security’s own Intelligence Director.”

Alex looked at her in
a daze of disbelief. “You mean Richard Connolly?”

The Deputy Secretary nodded. “Preston said he’d kept Connolly apprised of this situation from the beginning and that he was the only other person who’d been told the terrorist’s location in Dongying. Given Connolly’s awareness and access to NSA resources, it doesn’t seem to be much of a stretch to
draw the same conclusion.”

Alex placed the photo back on the Deputy Secretary’s desk and rubbed his hands dismissively. “Deputy Secretary, I’m afraid I have absolutely no explanation for that photo.
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” McCarthy said flatly. “You’re as involved in this mess as the rest of them. Even if Director Preston hadn’t told me about the CIA’s recent investigation of these same terrorists, it wouldn’t have been difficult to connect the dots. We’ll discuss your activities in Amsterdam at another time. Right now I have enough to worry about. I don’t have time to turn this situation into some kind of inter-agency witch hunt.”

“Yes ma’am.”

McCarthy walked over and pointed at Alex menacingly.
“So you’re going to do it for me.”