Don't Order Dog (23 page)

“What’s the nature of the correspondence?” Alex asked, walking a few paces behind Tom.

“Well… love letters essentially, although apparently the recipient, a young local woman, has never had prior contact with the author.”

Alex chuckled cynically. “I find that hard to believe.”

“So do I, but let’s put that aside for a moment. The letters seem to be just rambling confessions of love. No apparent substance or meaning beyond that. The only thing I found particularly curious about them was the author’s location. Each letter was written from a different country.”

“How many letters?”

“Five so far,” Tom said as he glanced over his shoulder. “Would you mind walking next to me? I feel like you’ve got a fucking gun pointed at me back there.” 

“Who says I don’t?”

“Fuck off, Alex. I don’t think my sister would appreciate how much of a prick you’re being right now. Does she even know you’re here?”

“I hate to say this Tom, but your sister thinks you’re a scum-bag. If Jane knew I was here right now, she’d probably tell me to pull the trigger.” 

“Yeah? Well, that’s only because I’m holding a secret over that bitch too. Maybe when you get back home you can ask Jane how many months after you two were engaged she was still fucking her ex-boyfriend.” 

Tom grinned at the sound of cursing behind him as
Alex suddenly slipped on the icy pavement. He turned to find his brother-in-law sprawled awkwardly on the sidewalk, his jaw clenched tightly in anger. Tom reached his hand out, but Alex roughly slapped it away. He slowly rose to his feet before gesturing for Tom to keep moving.

“I won’t even justify that with a response,” Alex said flatly, the anger evident in his voice. “Now get to the fucking point and tell me why we’re talking about love letters.”

“We’re talking about love letters because they were written by our suspected terrorist.” 

Alex loo
ked over at Tom incredulously. “And you have proof of this?”

Tom shook his head. “Come on Alex, you know I don’t have any
proof
, but obviously I found enough circumstantial evidence to get your attention. And you sure as fuck wouldn’t be in Flagstaff right now if you didn’t believe I was right.” 

“Maybe,” Alex replied. “B
ut you haven’t explained how you came up with this. How in the hell did you manage to make a connection between a handful of love letters and the actions of a potential international terrorist in the first place?”

Tom considered the question for a moment before shrugging his shoulders.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Alex. The fact that I have good intuition and some serious investigative skills just doesn’t fit with your image of me, so why should I try to convince you otherwise?”

“Try me.
”

“Okay… two things. Like I said, everything about the letters is strange, especially their places of origin. India,
the Middle East, Africa, South America, Russia… that’s a pretty odd pattern of travel for most people. Definitely not places for the faint-of-heart. And then there’s the photos,” Tom said as he shook his head. “These weird Polaroid pictures of himself that he sends with each letter, standing in the middle of nowhere. I mean seriously, who the fuck still carries around an old Polaroid camera?”

“Wait a minute,” Alex stopped an
d grabbed Tom’s arm. “You’re telling me you have photos of this guy?”

“Well, yes and no. The guy was clever enough to conceal his face in every photo
. But from what I could tell, he appears to be a taller-than-average, thirty-something Caucasian with dark brown hair and an athletic build.”   

“I want those photos, Tom.” Alex demanded, leaning towards Tom. “Now.”

“We’ll come back to that,” Tom said, waving his hand dismissively. “Anyway, I was about to dismiss this whole thing as some kind of strange obsession by a typical stalker-type when I decided to check the locations and dates of the letters against criminal reports in the same areas, and
bingo
. That’s when everything started falling into place.”

The two men descended back into the old downtown and stopped once again at the corner of Aspen Avenue. Tom looked at his brother-in-law expectantly. “Where to now?”

Alex nodded towards Heritage Square. “What else?” he asked as they started walking.

“That’s about it,” Tom replied. “I could give you my notes on the homicides prior to Kaliningrad, but you
’ve probably got more information on those than I do.”

“To hell with your notes
, I want every fucking photo and scrap of paper this bastard has sent to this ‘acquaintance’ of yours.” Alex shot Tom a suspicious look. “And I want to talk to this woman right away.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. My friend is protective of this woman to say the least. Not that
it matters. Even if he wasn’t, she has absolutely no desire to speak to anyone about the situation. Believe me, I’ve tried. The best I can give you for now is information on the terrorist’s location the minute she gets another letter.”

“You know that’s not good enough, Tom. I need access to the evidence– and her.”

“And I’m telling you that you’re not going to get it.” Tom stopped on the sidewalk and rubbed his gloved hands together. Alex spun and faced him.

“Right, of course
. This is where your conditions come in.” Alex sighed and looked resignedly up at the sky. “So, what do you want?”

Tom looked up at his brother-in-law’s imposing figure and smiled.
“You know what I want, Alex.”

“For fuck sake,” Alex replied, throwing his arms out in frustration
. “How long it is going to take to get this through your thick skull? I can’t make you a CIA agent.”

“No, but you
can
make me the next best thing,” Tom replied cheerfully. “You see Alex, you’re looking at this all wrong. You have to stop seeing me as just your wife’s tenacious little brother and start seeing me for what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“A distinguished colleague from another terrorist-fighting Federal Agency with critical information to an investigation that could be career-altering at the very least. That is, if you’re granted access to it. And let’s not forget, time is running out.”

“An investigator for ICE hardly qualifies as distinguished. You’re two pay-grades above the janitor, Tom.”

“I’m an investigator for the Department of Homeland Security,” Tom replied defensively. “And a Homeland Security agent acting as a formal consultant to the CIA would certainly go a long way in getting a re-examination of his qualifications. Especially one that’s been given Level-2 information clearance to what’s sure to be one of the biggest cases in the agency.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am. Think of it Alex– two brothers working hand-in-hand in a cross-agency investigation that ends with another rogue terrorist brought to justice. When the smoke clears and the story breaks, they’ll be interviewing us on every primetime news program in the free world. Then afterwards, you’ll take a nice promotion in the agency and add another medal to your Captain-fucking-America wall, and I’ll quietly become part of the club.”

Tom paused and pulled a brand new tube of lip balm from his pocket. He noticed the snow had stopped falling as he methodically covered his lips. He then tucked the used tube in his left pocket as a reminder to throw it away bef
ore narrowing his eyes on Alex. “Or, you can go back to Langley and try to fabricate a good reason as to why you put Kaliningrad on your watch list. Like you said, it’s your ass on the line, not mine.”

Alex looked at him coldly. He started to reply, then suddenly stopped and lifted his head as something caught his attention. Tom turned and looked. Across the street, Alex’s colleague stood under the street lamp staring
quietly back at them, the shoulders of his black overcoat glistening with melted snow.        

“Looks like your ride is here,” Tom mumbled.

Alex shifted his stare to Tom. “One week, Tom. You have one week to produce something solid enough to keep this floating. Otherwise I’ll make it my mission to end your career with Homeland Security, not to mention any chance with my agency. Do you understand me?”

“I would expect nothing less from family.”

Alex raised his index finger to Tom’s face. “One week.”

“Aye
-aye, captain,” Tom replied with a mocking sneer. “I’ll do my part… as long as you meet my conditions.” He leaned towards Alex and smiled smugly. “I look forward to joining the team, brother.” 

“Yo
u’re in way over your head, Tom,” Alex said quietly. He gestured at his colleague across the street and began walking back towards Leroux Street. He was nearly a block away when he suddenly spun on his heels and jogged back to the corner where Tom was standing. “What’s his name?”

“I have no idea what is name is,” Tom replied. “He’s never mentioned it in the letters.”

“No, not him,” Alex replied, shaking his head irritably. “Jane’s ex-boyfriend… what was his name?”

“Oh,
him
.” Tom seemed to think for a moment giving Alex a wry grin. “Who knows. It was a long time ago, Alex. But I wouldn’t worry about it. I just made that up to fuck with you.”

Hotel Keizersgracht
November 21, 1:12am
Planet Amsterdam

Jeri –

I’ve found it! The sister bar to Joe’s Last Stand has been unquestionably discovered here in the brackish backstreets of my personal Mecca of unbridled self-gluttony I affectionately call Amsterdam. It was incredible. I was panhandling for peep-show change on the outskirts of the Rossebuurt when my nose caught the scent of old oak and genever. Before I knew it, my clog-toting feet were standing at the doorway to a wicked little place called Huppel de Pub. Had it not been for the constant sound of slurred Dutch wafting from the interior, I would have sworn I was standing at the entry to your own enchanted tavern. Three hours later I was practically a regular as I swilled Wambrechies with the bartender and snuggled between the heady warmth of Helga from Rotterdam and Nela from Andorra. The only thing missing from this little taste of Dutch-wrapped nostalgia was you,
mijn liefde.

Our kids will be gorgeous, on that I bet my life.

And don’t worry about the ladies, Jeri-girl. I left the pub with little cash but nearly all my good propriety intact. This little holiday of mine will soon be over, but I refuse to let the whims of my own nether regions interfere with what has clearly grown between us. Not since the fiery eyes of a woman named Vida gazed down at me as she tended to my wounds on the cobbled streets of Pamplona have I allowed this heart of mine to distend so unnaturally from my chest. If only I’d known then that Vida was a gun-runner with the mood swings of a Colombian drug lord and the mouth of an Italian used car salesman, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is not to fret the distance… this little ticker’s in the bag.

In my usual keeping, I made fast friends with the bartender at Huppel de Pub and he absolutely refuses to let me leave the city without bestowing a certain type of blue shirt on him and his crew as part of the official sister-bar christening. Thus, enclosed is the name and address along with the necessary loot for three
Joe’s
t-shirts and a box of those goddamn addictive thin-mint Girl Scout cookies. Yes, the cookies are for me, Jeri. 

Speaking of food, the spekdiks are a far cry from American pancakes, but the biggest culinary calamity of this half-nude town has to be frikandel. I was halfway through this hotdog-mimicking meat stick when the street peddler I bought it from mentioned something about the horse he used to make it. I swear I’ll never really understand people Jeri, just the box they happen to come in. Don’t order dog.

Ta!

-
         
Mysterious Joe’s Last Stand Guy

P.S. – Don’t be jealous of the picture, honey bunny. Helga and Nela refused to let me snap a solo shot.

P.P.S. – Oh yeah, the address of the bar… Huppel de Pub, Kolksteeg 3,
1012 PT Amsterdam. Feel free to send it to the attention of my alter ego, Hubbell Gardner.

Tom Coleman sat in his office and read the one-page letter again, shaking his head at his luck. His eyes paused once more on the final sentence of the last paragraph, the grin on his face deepening as the full meaning of the words soaked in. He then carefully refolded the page along its original crease lines and slipped it back into the certified envelope it was delivered in before gently tucking it into the top drawer of his desk. Satisfied, he quickly grabbed the anti-bacterial lotion and rubbed it on his hands before closing the drawer.

The grin was still stretched across Tom’s face as he stared up at the tall stack of case files sitting on his desk. The normal sense of loathing he felt when looking at the files was gone this morning, lifted like a dull weight that had been hanging from his shoulders. He was still enjoying this cathartic feeling of victory when someone knocked on his door.

“Come in,” Tom replied as he quickly tidied up the stack in front of him. A handsome, dark-haired man stepped into his office and smiled.

“How’s it going, Tom?”

Tom’s grin immediately vanished as he glanced up at the handsome face of Agent Rick Martin. He leaned back at in his chair and nodded. “Good, Rick. You?”

“Great, man,” Rick replied, nodding in return. “Just wanted to stop by. Haven’t talked to you in a while.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it goes,” Tom said, gesturing at the case files on his desk. “Hardly enough time in the day as it is.”

“I hear you man,” Rick replied as he glanced around the cramped office with a smug grin. “This undercover ops stuff is just crazy. I’m working with the Tucson agents on some seriously fucked up shit right now. Drug trafficking, prostitution, fuck, you name it.” He sighed and shook his head dramatically.

“Just wrapped up a huge one yesterday. Big weapons trafficking deal coming out of Nogales. You should have fucking seen it, Tom. We hit this hotel over in Prescott in full ops gear. I’m talking assault rifles, bullet-proof vests, helmets
–
everything
. Four of us smashed in the door and took down three of those stupid fuckers. It was fucking crazy. These guys must’ve had two thousand guns cached up in their truck. Guns, ammo… fuckers even had a grenade launcher. Can you even believe that? Talk about adrenaline, man. I thought my fucking heart was going to explode! Huge deal though. Career wise it’s huge too. Heard I might even get a commendation or something, but whatever. It’s just good to be doing the
real
work now, you know what I mean?” He suddenly paused and looked at Tom. “But enough about me, man… how you doing?”

Tom stared at Agent Martin
for a moment before shrugging. “Great… just great. Busy with the usual types of cases… the
unreal
work as you might call it.” 

“Ha! Totally!” Rick replied as he slapped his hands and laughed awkwardly. “But hey man, somebody’s got to do it, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, well hey… I’ve got to get out of here, but it was great to see you man.”

Tom recoiled in disgust as Agent Martin suddenly reached his hand over Tom’s desk. “Oh, no… trust me… you don’t want to shake my hand,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’m fighting a pretty nasty cold right now.”  

“Oh shit, thanks man,” Rick replied, withdrawing his hand. “Yeah, hell no I don’t want to catch something. Got another big op in two days. Should be a good one. Alright Tom, I’ll see you man.”

Tom waved a single finger in goodbye as the young agent turned and slipped through the door.
Fucking idiot
he thought as he shook his head.
And to think he’s climbing the promotion ladder faster than me.
Tom grinned as he again thought of the letter in his top drawer.
But not anymore.
He was just beginning to open the drawer to glance at the letter when someone again knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Tom asked gruffly.   

Instead of a response, Tom looked up to see a tall, thin man with a retreating crop of red hair quickly step into his office.

“Mind if I take a few minutes of your time, Agent Coleman?” The man asked as he closed the door behind him. His baritone voice inflected the question in a manner that assumed the answer was yes.

“Oh– no, not at all, Director Preston,” Tom stammered as he pointed at the chair across from his small desk. He cleared the surprise from his throat as Division Director Jack Preston sat down and placed the manila folder he was carrying on his lap. He then fixed his dark green eyes on Tom.

“How can I help you, Director?” Tom asked earnestly.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Preston replied without smiling. Tom felt his body grow tense as the 52-year-old Executive Associate Director of Homeland Security and head of ICE Western Region Operations opened the folder and briefly scanned the contents before focusing his gaze back on Tom. “I just got out of a briefing with HSI Director Connolly in Washington, and, well Tom, it seems I’m caught in rather unusual circumstances for my position.” Preston closed the folder and placed it on his lap, then silently examined his hands.

Tom swallowed hard as he stared back at the Director. The mention of Connolly and the HSI, short for
Homeland Security Investigations
, made it clear where the nature of this conversation was heading. The HSI was the primary investigative and intelligence-gathering arm of ICE, and unquestionably the most clandestine. Publicly, the HSI’s mission was to investigate everything from smuggling and human rights violations to cybercrime and the security of the nation’s infrastructure. Internally, everyone knew that Richard Connolly’s appointment as HSI’s Executive Associate Director was gained through a fanatical focus on one thing – uncovering and destroying anything that remotely smelled of terrorist activity on American soil. It was widely known that Connolly, a former agent of the NSA, had deep connections with the CIA, the FBI, and of course, the NSA. Connolly also made no attempt to hide the fact he was zealously trying to remold HSI in the image of his former NSA – and was stepping heavily on the toes of the other Federal agencies in the process. Tom knew it wouldn’t take Connolly long to find out if any high-level investigations in the other agencies were linked to his own neck of the woods.

Now, three days after Tom’s conversation with his brother-in-law, it seemed Connolly had already caught wind of something connected to Homeland Security’s ICE Division and sent Preston here to sniff it out. 

“I’m not sure I follow you, Director,” Tom replied.

Preston narrowed his green eyes on Tom. “I’m actually quite sure you do, Tom,” he replied. “You see, Director Connolly just briefed me on a memo he received yesterday from the CIA. The memo stated that someone in our very own Flagstaff Field Office would be immediately receiving investigative pri
vileges and, oh, what was it–”

T
he Director glanced down at the open folder and ran his finger down the page. “Ah, yes, Level-two clearance in a top priority investigation currently underway.” He closed the folder and smiled at Tom. “My oh my, Tom… that’s pretty serious stuff. Last I heard the CIA doesn’t hand out level-two clearance unless someone has a pretty important role to play, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tom shift
ed uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes sir… absolutely.”

“I mean hell,” Preston continued, giving Tom the slightest hint of a smile, “I don’t think even
I
could get that kind of clearance, and I’ve been doing this dance for nearly three decades now. So I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when Director Connolly informed me that one of my own was getting special treatment from the boys in Langley.” Preston leaned forward in his chair. “And when he told me it was an ICE Agent named Tom Coleman, well I have to admit… I just about spit my coffee across the room.”

Tom smiled silently back at the Director.

“So,” the Director continued, leaning back in his chair. “I figured the best thing to do was to come down here to have a little chat about this unusual situation with the one man who can surely explain it to me. After all, I like to think that the members of this department work together like a family. You know, all of us working for the same cause and watching out for each other’s interests. At the end of the day, this department is like any other family– it simply cannot function without trust. Do you see my point, Agent Coleman?”

Tom nodded his head as he listened to the obvious trap the Director was laying for him. “I certainly do, Director,”
he responded. “And I absolutely agree that trust is a key part of any department or organization.” He slowly laid his hands on his desk. “That’s why I took the CIA’s request very seriously when they approached me and asked me to be a part of this investigation. I knew this would put me in a very difficult position, especially given my loyalty to the Department of Homeland Security, sir.”

Tom watched as a brief look of confusion crossed Preston’s face. He could see that his statement had just sent a wrecking ball through the Director’s intended strategy for getting him to talk.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Preston replied as he shifted in his chair. “Did you say the CIA approached
you
?”

“Yes sir. Three days ago to be exact. Special Agent Alex Murstead, who as you may know also happens to be my brother-in-law, called to inform me he was in Flagstaff and needed to meet with me immediately.”

Tom caught a flash of irritation in Preston’s eyes at the mention of his brother-in-law. He had little doubt that the Director knew of the family connection, and even less doubt that the smug prick was hoping to use it as leverage to get information. Whatever ammunition Preston had brought to use against him, Tom knew the man had very little left.     

“And what was the nature of your meeting?” Preston asked.

“We discussed a new case that my brother-in-law is overseeing. Based on some recent information that has come to light, Alex – excuse me –
Special Agent Murstead
– believed I could be very useful in the investigation.”

“I see,” the Director said, his
stare fixed menacingly on Tom. “But why would Agent Murstead be under the impression that you could add insight into a high-priority Federal investigation that warrants Level-2 access? Is it because you were the one who first brought this information to him?”

Tom sat in his chair pretending to consider the questions seriously. His initial apprehension of the Director’s unexpected visit had now vanished. It was clear that Preston and his counterpart Connolly were just fishing for information
. And the fact that the Executive Associate Director of Homeland Security was sitting in Tom’s cramped, first-floor office was an obvious indication they had almost nothing. Tom gazed back at Preston somberly, wondering if the man had any cards left to play.

“With all due respect Director, I’m afraid I can’t say.”

Preston rested his head in his hand and glared at Tom, his index finger tapping a measured rhythm against his freckled temple. After a few moments, a smile slowly stretched across his face. “And why is that Tom?” he asked plaintively.

“Well, as you said sir, it’s a classified investigation. You of all people understand the need for securing information when it comes to investigating matters of terrorism.”

The Director’s finger abruptly stopped. “And just what the hell do you think
this
agency does, Agent Coleman? Detain a few illegals at the border and call it a day? Are we not as much on the frontlines of fighting terrorism as the CIA? Or are you implying that Director Connolly and I are incapable of managing sensitive information in a terrorist investigation that directly deals with the safety and security of this country?”

Tom raised his hands apologetically.
“No sir, I –” 

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking!” Preston shouted. He glared at Tom with an expression of raw anger before slowly leaning back in his chair. “You know
, Tom, it’s no secret to anyone around here that you’ve got a hard-on for the CIA. I’m well aware of your recent attempt to join
the Company
, and I have no doubt your brother-in-law has been involved in helping you to do just that.” His lips curled upwards into a malicious smile. “So why don’t you spare us all the normal bullshit and tell me – the Divisional Director of the agency you actually work for – exactly what the hell is going on here?” 

Tom smiled meekly at Preston as he opened the top drawer of his desk. “I understand your
desire for answers, Director. I sincerely do,” he said as he pulled out the letter he’d received earlier that morning and slid it across the desk. “Unfortunately, the CIA doesn’t share that opinion.”

Preston leaned forward and snatched the letter from Tom’s d
esk. Tom watched as he read, smiling contentedly as the Director’s expression quickly transformed from curiosity to concealed astonishment. When he was done, Preston tossed the letter back on Tom’s desk and locked his hands together thoughtfully. 

“Anything else I can do for you, Jack?” Tom asked earnestly.

Preston shook his head as he collected his folder and quickly stood up to leave. “It seems I misjudged you, Agent Coleman,” he said quietly. “I thought you were a part of this family, but obviously I was mistaken. I also believed you were a patriot who put his country above all else, but apparently I was mistaken about that as well. I suppose that’s just how these things go sometimes… we don’t know the true mettle of a man until he’s faced with tough choices. Oh well.” The Director walked to the door, then turned and looked at Tom. “Best of luck with your investigation, and be sure to make a good impression with those boys at Langley. After all, I doubt there’ll be much use for a man with your
independent mentality
around here when this is done.” He was almost through the door when he paused and glared at Tom once more.