Rogue Operator (11 page)

And
never worn it.

He
checked his teeth for the umpteenth time, then headed for the door. Slipping on
his dress shoes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and cursed.
Hair!
Rushing back to the bathroom, he combed his hair neatly, then returned to the
front door of his apartment, only to find an envelope had been stuffed under
his door.

What
the hell?

He
opened the door and looked down the hallway, but saw no one. He was quite
certain it hadn’t been there when he was putting his shoes on, but then he was
so distracted with today’s plans and how one question might change his entire
life, that there could have been an R2 unit whistling for attention in the
corner, and he might have missed it.

He
picked up the envelope. It was a standard white business envelope, no window,
no writing beyond the typed ‘Chris Leroux’ centered on the front. He examined
the type and determined it was most likely from a laser printer, most likely
untraceable.

Grabbing
an opener, he stuck the long blade inside the tiny gap, and gently cut it open,
careful to not tear anything that might be inside. He shoved the blade back in
the cup that had held it unused for so long, the last time he had received an
actual envelope that he cared about months ago at least. Popping the envelope
open, he dumped the contents on the counter.

A single
yellow piece of paper, folded in quarters, was the entire contents. He
reconfirmed by looking inside the envelope, then set it aside. He debated on
whether or not to preserve fingerprint evidence, his heart slamming against his
ribcage as he stared at the ordinary yellow paper lying in front of him,
begging to be opened.

It was
his first ever secret communique.

Or it
could be an anonymous letter from a neighbor, complaining about his late night
viewing of the latest season of The Walking Dead.

He
grabbed the page and quickly unfolded it, fingerprint evidence be damned.

The
words had his head swimming, and he reached for a chair, dropping in it before
he passed out.

You
are being watched. K.

Super 8 Motel, Ogden, Utah

It wasn’t his usual level of accommodations, but this was the job,
and it called for a more low-key approach. Which meant the Super 8 Motel. He
didn’t care if the sinks were marble, or the faucets gold plated. All he cared
about was whether or not he had to go through a lobby, which he didn’t, and if it
was clean.

And it
was.

He’d
find out tonight what type of clientele it had when the headboards started
thumping against the walls. After a quick shower to refresh from the flight and
the drive, he massaged his feet for a few minutes as he sat in front of the
window, the curtain open, the sun pouring in on his face, as he reset his
internal circadian rhythm to the new time zone. Getting a good sleep on the
plane helped, and an old trick his college archaeology prof had taught him
helped as well—take your shoes off on the flight.

He had
wondered for years, during those days of staking out some terrorist hideout, or
in between drunken stupors in some den of inequity, what his life would have
been like if 9/11 had never happened. He had been in college at St. Paul’s
University in Maryland on a full-ride scholarship for football when the attack
had happened. Though it was an archaeology class, the conversations had been
dominated by those events, and how they related to history. He couldn’t
remember how now, but some parallel was drawn with the fall of Rome.

And
that’s when he had made his decision. He talked it over with Professor Acton,
the one professor he felt would understand his decision, and give him an honest
opinion. And the Doc had. When he announced he was thinking of leaving college
to join the army and fight the terrorists, all the Doc had asked was, “Why?”

“Because
I feel it’s my duty.”

“To
serve your country, or to seek revenge?”

He
wasn’t sure, so he decided to answer honestly. “Both, I think.”

“If your
motivations are revenge, then you might want to rethink your decision.
Emotional decisions made in the heat of the moment quite often backfire; you’re
setting yourself on a track that may be hard to deviate from, and may
ultimately cost you your life. If you’re looking to serve your country in its
armed forces, then there’s no greater calling in my opinion, and if you think
that will make you happy, then leave with my blessing. Just know what your
reasons are. Your
real
reasons. And if you think, ten, twenty, thirty
years from now, when you’re sitting at home with your family, you’ll still be
comfortable with those reasons, then go. And if you decide to come back at some
point, you call me, and I’ll get you back in.”

The Doc
had even seen him off at the airport. Professor James Acton was a man he had
always respected, whose opinion he had always valued, whose class he had always
looked forward to, and with the information he had read on him over the past
couple of years, was a man who seemed to not only be able to handle himself,
but always did the right thing.

And was
a magnet for trouble.

Kane had
no doubt the Doc would be able to sit back one day with his family, and know he
had done the things he had done for the right reasons.

The Doc was
a man he would love to sit down with and swap horror stories. But that was
never to be. Perhaps on the Doc’s deathbed. For the Doc he hoped that would be
as an old man, in his home, surrounded by the ones he loved. But with what he
had read, especially most recently in China, he had a bad feeling the Doc’s
death would be in some far away land, at the end of a bullet or tank round.

Which
was supposed to be
his
fate.

He stood
up and returned to the bathroom, washing his face and retrieving a shaving
brush and soap from his travel kit. Wetting the brush, he swirled it in the shaving
soap and when he had a good lather, covered his face with a generous layer of
the foam, its rich amaretto aroma stimulating his nostrils, triggering a
response in his brain, telling it to ‘wake up!’. He flicked open a straight
razor and began the long practiced art of the straight shave, a skill he had
learned from a nice lady in Kathmandu he had spent a week with. It had been his
first time. No, not for that, but for a shave with a blade that could just as
easily kill you as up your handsomeness quotient.

It was
the end of a mission, he was celebrating a little early, and had complained to
the mid-priced talent he had acquired that he couldn’t wait to shave off the
beard he had grown to help blend into the streets of Istanbul. A phone call to
the front desk by her, and ten minutes later she was shaving him from behind,
in the small cracked mirror of the shithole he was in.

Naked.

It was
erotic, and terrifying. It was perfect. And he taught himself the skill. To him
the ritual seemed civilized, a throwback to a bygone era when men took pride in
the act of personal grooming, rather than trying to accomplish it as quickly as
possible.

When
was the last time you actually cleaned between your toes?

He carefully
shaved around his Adam’s apple, then rinsed off the blade, then his face, and inspected
his handiwork. Toweling himself dry, he returned his shaving equipment to the
travel bag, and unzipping his garment bag, he retrieved a black suit and white
shirt, still crisp from when room service in Phuket had last handled it.

Minutes
later he was stepping out the door as Dylan Kane, Insurance Investigator for Shaw’s
of London.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

To say Chris Leroux was jumpy would be an understatement. Every tap,
every door closing, every chime of the elevator, had his heart racing. If
someone walked by his cubicle, he’d turn his head slightly, looking from the
corner of his eye to see if he were being watched.

And the
only person who seemed to be watching him was Sherrie White.

Any idea
of asking her for coffee was out the window.
She
was the one who was
watching him. That much was obvious. She had sat near him for the past couple
of months, and in fact he seemed to remember asking himself why she had been
put where she had. There were other perfectly good, vacant offices at the time.

The
Director had put her there to spy on him.

But why?

He
thought he was a good analyst, good at his job. Loyal. Never broke any of the
rules.

Never?

Okay, so
he had with this particular case. But that was only because he was convinced
the others were wrong.

But
you’re just an analyst. What gives you the right to ignore orders?

“Are you
okay?”

Leroux
jumped he was sure six inches just from the push his clenching butt cheeks gave
him as his body instinctively tried not to shit his pants. He spun around, his
heart hammering, and it hammered a little more when he saw who had asked the
question.

It was Sherrie.

Standing
in his office for the first time ever, he was certain.

At
least while you’re there.

And that
was true. Sometimes he found his desk in the morning slightly different than he
remembered leaving it. He had always chalked it up to cleaning staff, or
security staff making certain he hadn’t left any classified information out,
but now he wasn’t so sure.

It’s
her.

“Yeah,
just a little jumpy today, I guess,” he sputtered.

“Then I
guess you don’t need any more coffee?”

“Huh?”

“I was
wondering if you’d like to join me for coffee.”

No!
She’s just trying to pump you for information!

“Yeah,
I’d like that.”

He stood
and did a cheek squeeze to make sure he hadn’t had an accident, and followed
her down the corridor, the creature of his desires actually having asked him
the very question he had wanted to.

A
creature he knew he couldn’t trust.

Ogden Police Department

2186 Lincoln Ave, Ogden, Utah

“Excuse me, Sergeant. I’m Dylan Kane, with Shaw’s of London. I need
to talk to the detective in charge of the Maggie Peterson disappearance. A
Detective Percy, I believe?”

Unfortunately
his charm didn’t work on crusty old desk sergeants.

“Have a
seat.”

Kane
suppressed a frown, instead smiling, and choosing a seat on the edge of a row,
hoping it would mean at worst he’d have to compete with only one person for the
arm rest. As it turned out, the fifteen minute wait was uneventful, and he
instead reread the files Leroux had sent him.

Finally
a door opened and a man in a cheap but neat suit stepped out.

“You
wanted to see me?”

“Detective
Percy?” asked Kane as he rose.

The man
nodded.

“Dylan
Kane, Shaw’s of London.”

Kane
extended his hand, firmly shaking the Detective’s, immediately sizing him up.
The returned shake was firm, dry and no longer than it needed to be. This man
was confident, and felt in control. Bags under his eyes though suggested he was
having trouble sleeping, and the slight shake in his hand when he accepted the
business card Kane offered, suggested caffeine was being used to compensate for
the lack of sleep.

Something’s
troubling him.

He
dismissed domestic problems. There was a ring on the finger, which in this type
of community, and his age, most likely meant his wife took care of him. And his
shirt and pants were freshly pressed, his tie matched, and his shoes were
clean. No, this man’s wife still loved him and cared for him. Even last night.
And the luggage under his eyes suggested long term problems.

Job.

He
couldn’t imagine there being a lot of pressure here, not with at least his
brief exposure, so that meant a particular case. And if he were a betting man,
which he always was when in Macau, he’d bet it was the case he was about to
question him on.

“How can
I help you, Mr. Kane?”

“I need
to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of Margaret Peterson and her
two children.”

The
cloud that swept over Detective Percy’s visage confirmed Kane’s suspicions.
It’s
this case.

“Who did
you say you were again?” asked the detective, rereading the card.

“Dylan
Kane, Shaw’s of London.”

“And
what does Shaw’s have to do with my missing persons case?”

“There’s
a substantial life insurance policy involved, and when it’s of this size, we
naturally investigate, especially when the circumstances are so, shall we say,
unusual?”

Percy
frowned, then led him through a secure door and into an interrogation room.

“Give me
a minute.”

The
detective disappeared as Kane sat down, making a show of opening his briefcase
and removing a pad of paper and a pen, along with a stack of files that had
nothing to do with the case on hand, as there had been no time to properly prep
the cover. This wouldn’t be the first time he had pulled this bluff, and every
time someone had asked to see the files, he had been able to successfully plead
client confidentiality. Except that one time in Vietnam. A gun had been pointed
at his head, the files were shown, looked at, and returned. Fortunately for him
his interrogator couldn’t read a word of English, and the empty “Insert client
photo if available” square was easily explained. “Most of our clients don’t
like their photo taken.”

The door
opened and Percy walked in with a stack of his own files. A stack far larger
than what Kane had expected.