Don't Order Dog (24 page)

“Oh, and Tom… don’t ever call me Jack again.”

Tom shrugged dismissively as the sound of his office door slamming shut echoed through the small office
.
He grabbed the letter from his desk and once again smiled at the bright blue crest of the Central Intelligence Agency emblazoned at the top. As he read the crisp official words that had been sent from the office of Agent Alex Murstead, a rush of exhilaration returned once again. 

Agent Coleman,

As granted by National Security Directive NSC 32-234, this letter is to inform you that, effective immediately, you are ordered to suspend all activities associated with your current duties within the Office of Immigration and Customs Enforcement in order to assist with a matter of priority with this agency. You are immediately directed to contact the liaison to the Special Activities Division listed below for further instruction and to initiate your participation in this matter.

Furthermore, no information beyond the order of this directive is permitted to be shared with any individual, officer, or agency outside of the Special Activities Division of this agency. Failure to comply with this order is subject to criminal prosecution. 

The ring of Tom’s cell phone suddenly interrupted him. He glanced down at the screen at an unfamiliar number. After a brief hesitation, he grabbed the phone and quickly slapped it to his ear. 

“Agent Coleman.”

“Tom,
” a low, gravelly voice replied. “It’s your deputy.”

“Who is this?” Tom asked impatiently.

“It’s Chip, Tom. Chip Shepherd. Christ, didn’t they teach you how to recognize a person’s voice in that outfit?”

Tom ignored the question as the older man chuckled quietly
on the other end of the line. “I’m very busy, Chip. What’s up?”

“You asked me to call you if something came up with the… well, you know… situation. And something’s come up.”

“What have you got?”

A long paused followed before Chip coughed nervously an
d spoke quietly into the phone. “Is this really something you want to talk about over the phone?”

Tom realized that at that very moment Jack Preston was storming back to his office to dial up Director Connolly and detail him on their conversation. God only knew what Connolly would ask Preston to do to get information – including a tap on his office phone.

“Good point,” Tom answered. “How about I meet you for a drink?”

“Fine,” Chip replied. “You know where to find me.” 

“What do you mean, non-responsive?” The gruff, southern-accented voice of HSI Director Richard Connolly asked angrily.

Jack Preston sat on the large leather couch in the center of his rarely used Flagstaff field office with his cell phone pressed to his ear. “I mean he refused to give me anything,” he replied defensively.

“Did you threaten him?”

Preston rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the NSA, Richard, and it sure as hell isn’t like the old days. You and I both know if I even lifted a finger at someone around here
, the OPR would be crawling up my ass within twenty-four hours. No, I didn’t threaten him. I tried very hard to persuade him.”

Connolly sighed
loudly into the phone. “Perhaps I haven’t properly conveyed the importance of getting that son of a bitch to talk, Jack. If those assholes at Langley circumvent our authority on another investigation, the last thing you’re going to be worrying about is the proper treatment of a field agent. Congress is already bleeding us dry with budget cuts, and now the crickets inside the beltway are beginning to question the very value of the Department of Homeland Security.” He paused for a brief bout of coughing before speaking angrily into the phone. “It’s time for some aggressive tactics, Jack. We need a
win
– but we’re never going to get one if our own goddamn agents keep running to the CIA every time they have something, are we?”

“No, Richard, I suppose we aren’t.”

“Then what are you prepared to do about this situation?”

Preston paused for a moment before responding.
“I’m prepared to go beyond persuasion.”

“Then do it,” Connolly growled. “And do it soon. Time is running out.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Richard.”

Preston hung up and cursed under his breath.
Fucking Connolly
he thought as he grabbed his mug from the table in front of him and threw back the last cold slug of coffee. The HSI Director was a cynical relic of the Cold War who still believed covert, aggressive tactics were sometimes the best means to solve problems.

Unfortunately, in this case he was probably right.

Preston walked over to the large desk in the corner of his office and once again flipped through the personnel file for Agent Tom Coleman. As before, nothing in the file stood out. The thirty-one year-old investigative specialist had a fairly typical profile for a Homeland Security agent – military veteran, police veteran, average intelligence, recently divorced. The only noteworthy blemish on Coleman’s record was a citation for an off-duty incident that resulted in his voluntary resignation from the Phoenix PD, but even that wasn’t uncommon. Otherwise his record indicated nothing more than what Preston already surmised – Coleman was a competent but entirely mediocre investigator with illusions of CIA grandeur. And yet this mediocre agent had managed to find something that had the CIA’s full attention. Something significant enough to give him level-two clearance on a priority investigation and, perhaps even more infuriating, a smug attitude of secrecy towards his own Director. 

Preston closed the personnel file and shook his head in anger. There was only one thing left to do.
Aggressive tactics
he thought irritably as he picked up his cell phone and quickly scrolled through his long list of contacts. When he reached the number of a contact listed simply as “Austin” he immediately hit the call button.

“Hello?” A timid, nasally voice answered.

“Eugene. It’s Jack Preston.”

“Oh hey, happy holidays Jack!” the voice exclaimed cheerfully, “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a new project that requires immediate attention,” Preston replied tersely. “I want full collection on this one. Physical, electronic… the whole works. How soon can you be available?”

“Um… well… how about this afternoon?” the voice responded, cracking with enthusiasm.

“Fine,” Preston said. “No later than two. The subject will be leaving from this location. I’ll email a bio over in a few minutes. Just make sure you call me once you’re up and running. I’ll want an hourly report on everything that’s happening – understood?”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, his voice low. “If you fuck this one up, consider it the last paying job you’ll ever get from the largest client you’ll ever have. Am I clear?”

“Yeah, okay… sure,” the nasally voice replied with alarm. “I understand. Don’t worry
, Jack.”

“All I do is worry
,” Preston replied irritably. “Remember… hourly reports.” He hung up his cell phone and tossed it on his desk before immediately picking up his office phone. He punched the number for his assistant in Phoenix.

“Good morning, Director Preston,” an attractive female voice answered.

“Good morning Amy,” Preston replied. “Look, change of plans – I’m not returning to the Phoenix office today after all. Can you arrange for some lunch to be brought up for me here in the Flagstaff office?

“Of course, sir. I’ll call Julie and have her take care of it. Julie is your assistant at the Flagstaff office.”

“Julie?” Preston asked. “Is she the heavyset girl with the fake red hair?”

“I’m not sure
, sir. I haven’t actually met her. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes, there is. Call Supervisor Michaels in this office and tell him I want two things. First, I want the name of the best field agent in the Flagstaff office. Second, I want to know the exact moment Agent Tom Coleman leaves for the day. Make it clear to him that these requests stay between the two of us, understood?”

“Yes sir. I’ll contact him now.”

“Thanks Amy.”

Preston opened his briefcase and grabbed his morning security briefing. He flipped through it quickly, absently scanning the latest status updates on pending investigations. A few minutes later his office phone rang.

“Jack Preston.”

“Hi Director,” Amy replied. “I spoke to Supervisor Michaels, and he would recommend agent Rick Martin in Undercover Operations for any special projects you may need assistance with, sir.”

“Very good. Anything else?”

“Yes sir. He also asked me to inform you that he just checked and apparently Agent Coleman has already left for the day.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Preston barely slammed the phone down before a stream of expletives erupted from his lips.

“So what
are you going to write, Jeri?”

Chip asked the question with an anxious smile on his face as Jeri thumbed through a book from her corner s
eat behind the bar. She glanced up at him with an annoyed expression.

“What are you talking about Chip?” she asked.

“Your pen pal. What are you going to write to him? You weren’t planning on sending a package without including a letter, were you?”

Jeri stood up and tossed the book on the counter. She looked out the front window of the saloon at the maple trees that stood along the sidewalk. A tattered blanket of snow sat on their stark, gray-brown branches as they swayed against a constant midday wind. Even from the warm interior of
Joe’s, the view made her shudder with cold.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she answered flatly.

Chip raised his eyebrows as his hand stroked the beer in front of him. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, if it’s that important to you,” Jeri said as she turned away from the window, “why don’t you just write him for me?”

Chip started to respond when the front door of the saloon groaned open and a short, stocky figure walked in. The man closed the heavy door behind him before pulling a small disposable wipe cloth from his jacket with his gloved hand and meticulously cleaned the top of his shoes. Satisfied, he stood and absently tossed the wipe onto the floor. As he took off his winter cap, Jeri noticed the buzzed haircut and immediately recognized the man named Tom who’d become something of a regular in the last few weeks. She looked over at Chip and slowly shook her head. 

“We’ll talk about this later.”

Jeri poured a beer from the tap and placed in front of Tom as he sat down next to Chip before heading back to her corner. She then grabbed her book and slipped quietly onto her stool, pretending to read as the two men exchanged greetings and immediately began talking in low, muted voices. Curious, she glanced repeatedly at Chip, but the older man was too engaged in the conversation to notice.

A few minutes later, after reading the same page on global supply chain management for a fourth time, Jeri begrudgingly accepted that her mind was focused on a different subject. She glanced once again at Chip before excitedly flipping through her book to a spot where the pages were separated by a thick object. Arriving at it, Jeri gazed at the airmail envelope that was jammed into the crease of the book’s spine, its familiar blue and red-striped edges standing out vividly against the black text of the book’s pages. The top of the envelope was torn open, revealing the shiny white edge of the Polaroid that had come with the letter.

Jeri slipped the photo from the envelope and discreetly held it against the open page of her book. She studied it closely again.

In the photo were three people sitting in what appeared to be a dimly-lit bar. In the center, a familiar figure with short, curly dark hair smiled broadly, his tanned face further darkened by the shadow of a day-old beard.
Were she able to see them, Jeri imagined two large intelligent eyes staring back at her. Instead, the man’s large hands were pressed playfully over his face, covering everything but his mouth. On each side of him sat two women, both laughing wildly at the camera, one with long brunette hair and the other with short, bright red curls. But what Jeri noticed more was what the two women had in common – both appeared to be at least in their late fifties. She smiled as she once again examined their gestures. The woman on the left sat with her hands cupped over her mouth, the other with a hand over each ear. Together, the threesome completed a clumsy rendition of the age-old proverb –

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil
.

As she stared at the photo, a single nagging question played repeatedly t
hrough Jeri’s mind, tugging her mouth into a concentrating frown.

What was she going to write?
 

∞
 

Tom Coleman could barely contain his anxiety.

Within minutes of getting Chip’s call, he’d slipped inconspicuously out of the ICE offices and driven directly to see the older man. Or nearly directly. After his conversation with Jack Preston, he’d taken the extra precaution of turning onto side streets and watching the traffic behind him to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Once he was downtown, Tom had parked his car several blocks from the old saloon and taken a back alley route to the entrance. The only mishap during the trip had been at the end, when he’d stepped into an unseen pothole in the alley that had left a disgusting layer of filth on his normally spotless leather shoes. Nevertheless, Tom was in high spirits as he strolled into the dark, warm interior of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon. Now, as he sat down at his usual spot next to Chip, Tom suppressed his restlessness and took a quick drink of the beer that Jeri had poured for him.

“You certainly made good
time.” Chip mumbled.

“I got the impression this was important,” Tom replied. He quickly glanced around the room and noticed that the saloon was practically empty. Only two other men sat at the far end of the bar, both of them middle-aged professor-types. Jeri, aloof as always, had already settled into her corner of the bar and was now engrossed in a thick book.

Chip sat up straight on his barstool and rubbed his eyes with exhaustion, then glanced over at Tom. “Could be,” he said with a neutral expression, his blue eyes blinking into focus. “But of course, I’ll leave that up to you and your vast expertise.”

“Did Jeri get another letter?” Tom asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

Chip nodded slowly. “Came in the mail this morning. Apparently he’s in Europe.” He paused and took a drink. “Amsterdam to be specific.”

“Is it up yet?” Tom asked, looking towards the far corner
of the room where the rest of the letters and pictures were hung.

“Not yet,” Chip replied. “Jeri still has it.”

Tom glanced briefly over at Jeri before nodding his head. “So what’s in this new letter that was important enough to bring me down here?”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute,” Chip replied. He rested his elbows on the bar and gazed at Tom with a somber expression, his blue eyes narrowing on him suspiciously. “But first, I have a few questions of my own.”

Tom gave him a blank stare. “Questions about what?”

“The investigation,” Chip replied.

“The
investigation
?” Tom repeated, chuckling. “What the hell are you talking about, Chip? You know that’s not how this works. I’m the one in charge of asking the questions around here– not you.” He shook his head irritably and took a long drink of his beer. Between his brother-in-law and Jack Preston, Tom now had two separate agencies breathing down his neck – which meant the clock was ticking. Every hour that passed increased the chances of one if not both of them crawling up his ass and finding the real source of his information. And if that happened, he knew it would spell the end of his career in
any
agency. Whatever had caused the sudden change of heart in the old man next to him, Tom didn’t have the time or patience to deal with it right now.

“Oh really?” Chip said, gazing at Tom intently. “Is that how this works? Because I distinctly remember you asking for my help in this matter. But perhaps I was wrong. In fact, perhaps I should just walk over to Jeri and tell her what’s going on here.”

“Okay, fine… fine,” Tom conceded, raising his hands in surrender. “What do you want to know?”

“The other day when you showed me your business card, I happened to notice your title–
Investigative Specialist
. I’m not sure why, but I decided to look into it a little bit. No offense Tom, but that’s not exactly a high-level position for a Homeland Security agent, especially for one heading up a terrorist investigation. So it got me to thinking.” Chip paused as his face eased into a slight grin, “What’s this low-level Homeland Security agent
really
doing here? And if this is such an important investigation, why isn’t this place crawling with agents?” He picked up his beer. “So those are my questions Tom. Would you care to fill me in?”  

Tom sat silently, staring at Chip with a stoic expression. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Jeri briefly glance in their direction.

“Alright, you want the truth?” Tom said quietly. “Here’s the truth.” He took a long drink of his beer and turned towards the older man. “There was no investigation of any kind surrounding these deaths before I walked in here and saw those letters. I pieced this whole thing together on my own. I’m the one that did the research and connected the dots. I’m the one that figured out this guy is some kind of corporate terrorist. And you know what?” Tom suddenly leaned in towards the older man, “I was
right
.”

“How do you know for sure?” Chip asked.

“I took a gamble,” Tom replied. “I told a contact inside the CIA about the first three incidents. I told him what I thought was happening. Then I told him if I was right, something was going to happen in the location of the fourth letter –
in Kaliningrad.”

“And?”

“A researcher was killed at a Petronus-owned research facility in Kaliningrad three days ago.”    

“Good lord,” Chip replied, shaking his head. “Okay, so now everyone knows you were right about this guy. But that still doesn’t answer my second question. If this is a real investigation, where are all your friends?” He pointed his thumb towards the shrine of letters and photos. “And why are those still hanging on the wall instead of being analyzed in a crime lab somewhere?”

Tom’s mouth curled into a slight grin. “Because I haven’t told anyone my source for this information.”

Chip looked at him curiously. “And why would that be, Tom?”

“Let’s just say I have something to prove to a few people,” Tom replied. “But that’s nothing you need to worry about. The good news is that this place isn’t going to be crawling with agents anytime soon– unless you’d prefer otherwise.” He narrowed his eyes on Chip. “Would you rather see Joe’s Last Stand turned into a federal circus show?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the older man replied.

“Good. Neither would I,” Tom agreed. “So, have I answered all your questions now?”

Chip nodded his head slowly. “See, all you had to do was be honest with me,” he replied, taking a slug of his beer. He rested his glass on the bar and looked at Tom gloomily. “Actually, I still have one more question, but I don’t think you can answer it.”

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“Jeri,” Chip replied, pawing at his beer. “Why her? Of all the places and people this guy could have picked, why did he pick this one? Why did he pick Jeri?”

Tom shrugged. “I’ll tell you why. At some point in the recent past, this guy walked in here and noticed the hot bartender serving drinks and he wanted to get her attention. But of course, being like most terrorists, when it comes down to it he’s nothing more than a gutless coward. It’s probably easier for this asshole to plant an explosive device in someone’s kitchen than it is to speak face-to-face with an attractive woman. So what does he do? He buys one of those ugly goddamn t-shirts and starts writing Jeri when he isn’t busy killing Petronus scientists. He probably figures there’s nothing to lose. After all, what are the odds that someone’s going to take notice of some stupid love letters written to some girl in Flagstaff, right? That’s it. End of story. The truth is that shit like this happens all the time, Chip. Not everything is done with a plan. And you and I both know that even smart guys make stupid mistakes. Assuming this guy even
is
smart.”

Chip suddenly suppressed a laugh. Tom paused and gave him a questioning look. “What… are you going to tell me you have a better theory?”

“No, not at all,” Chip replied quietly. “If I were a terrorist and wanted a good-looking woman to notice me, I suppose I’d do the same thing. You know… buy a t-shirt, fly around the world, and drop her an occasional letter. I’d say that theory is as solid as they come.”

Tom nodded impatiently and looked at his watch. “Right, okay. Look Chip, I don’t have much time. Can we get back to the reason you called me down here?”

“Sure.” Chip drained the last of his beer and cleared his throat before leaning towards Tom. “Well, as I said earlier, the guy is apparently in Amsterdam right now. He mentioned in the letter that he’s on a bit of a holiday, and that he’s found a bar there that reminds him of this place. Other than that, the rest of the letter was mostly his usual nonsense.” Chip paused and shot a quick glance at Jeri, then gave Tom a conspiratorial grin. “But there was one thing unique about this letter.”

Tom leaned towards him eagerly. “What?”

“He asked Jeri to send him some Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirts for the guys at the bar over there. Which means–”

“Which means he included an address,” Tom interjected, a grin slowly growing on his face.

Chip nodded. “It also means he’ll be hanging around there for a little while.”
“I need that address Chip,” Tom said quietly as his eyes drifted towards Jeri. “We don’t have much time.”

Chip seemed to ignore him as he stared at the empty beer glass in front of him. A moment later he reached into his shirt packet and pul
led out a small piece of paper. “I figured you would,” he muttered as he laid the paper on the counter. “I wrote it down when Jeri wasn’t paying attention.”