The bags under her eyes were still there, but they looked less angry than before.
Connor wasn’t talkative much these days, but he sure as hell helped her.
When she’d rejoined the CIA a few months later, she had learned that nothing of note had happened in her absence.
Adrian Vandervoort had essentially disappeared off the radar. That in itself didn’t surprise her. It was the standard operating procedure.
He would have taken the time to recover from his wounds and try to discover where the intelligence breach had occurred.
It always comes back to Dick Mitey, she realized. She wondered for about the hundredth time what exactly it was that made him so special. There was no denying the significance of the re-emergence of Dick Mitey.
Sarah didn’t believe that it was a coincidence that Dick Mitey was released when he was. It was Adrian baiting her.
She’d gotten the best of him in their first encounter. But he was aiming for a rematch. And he was using Dick to set the stage.
Sarah didn’t like that much. There wasn’t much more she wanted in this world than another crack at Adrian Vanderfuck, but walking into a trap, well, that wasn’t exactly beneficial to her long-term health.
And yet…
“I need to get on a plane,” she announced, barging in unannounced to Mohammad Al-Azhar’s office.
Behind Al-Azhar, a few commendations hung on the wall, and a picture of his family sat on the solid oak desk.
“It’s good to see you too,” he said in measured tones. “Close the door and sit down.”
He stroked his beard and looked at Sarah with an impassive expression. She knew, though, that underneath the calm surface a great many emotions were going through his mind. Chiefly annoyance, for starters. He was gripping his pen tightly. That was one of his tells.
They’d worked together long enough for her to know.
“Before you speak, know that I’ve read the report as well. It was one of the first things on my desk this morning.”
“But I –“
Al-Azhar held up a meaty hand, demanding her silence.
“You are too close to this. Much too close. In any case, it is likely the release of Dick Mitey is a set up to grab your attention.
“Yeah, so fucking what,” she spat. A dangerous gleam appeared in Al-Azhar’s eyes. She was testing his patience.
“This man that you’re hunting, he is dangerous. Unpredictable. And you would have us walk into a trap with our arms open?”
“Well, no of course not. But if we sent a team down, we could prepare for that.” Sarah crossed her arms. How could he not see how they could use this to take him down for good.
“And risk an international incident in doing so?”
Sarah writhed on her chair. That was a lousy excuse, and they both knew it. CIA operatives had done hundreds of missions such as the one Sarah was suggesting over the history of the agency.
“We can take him alive. He’s bound to have information on this Black Eagle group we keep hearing about. That’s why you had me sent to Ibiza.”
But that had been months ago. The game was different now.
“We have information on them,” Mo said quietly. “They’re the military arm of the New Socialist party. That stays between us, by the way. It’s classified.”
Abelard Lochte’s New Socialist party continued to make headlines as the party consolidated power. Already many countries in the European Union were threatening to leave if he didn’t rescind some of his aggressive policies. Unfortunately, many countries were also reliant on Germany’s economic aid, leaving a deeply divided Europe.
The rise to power of the New Socialist party had created waves in European politics.
So what, we’re just going to leave him there?” Sarah asked, referring to Dick Mitey.
“That’s a problem for the U.S. Embassy,” Mo shrugged, “not for us.”
“He’s the key to all of this. That awkward ass motherfucker is our key to finding Vandervoort.”
“I am not risking any of my agents over an issue that doesn’t have any real significance, do you hear? Look, Sarah, I know that you’re trying to make it up to Connor. Appropriately mourn him. Light some candles, sing a few hymns, honor his memory.
Nothing good will happen if you continue down this path. No glory, nothing but a white light at the end of a tunnel.”
Sarah uncrossed her arms and looked at her boss with fire in her eyes.
“I can’t believe that you would allow such a person, who murdered on our soil, to escape just like that.
“It’s not a matter of permission. It’s a matter of seeing that there are dead ends everywhere. When we catch up with Vandervoort – and we will catch up with him – we can speak about this again. Our network of operatives is among the best in the world. We can do this all without risking precious operative resources, without falling into a trap.”
“I disagree,” Sarah puffed out her chest.
“As much as I value your opinion, Nieminen, I won’t change my answer. Trust the process.
Sarah considered all of this, though a rage as hot as the sun filled her up inside. The fact that he was right about it just made it all that much more frustrating.
“Sometimes it’s wiser to sit on the sidelines and watch the play evolve,” Mohammad Al-Azhar added.
Sarah scoffed. The CIA was prepared to let an innocent man suffer in a foreign country because of politics. All of the talk of brotherhood and family that the agency espoused didn’t stand for anything, after all.
“Maybe I came back from admin leave too early.”
“Maybe you did,” Mo replied. Sarah had known him a long time, but she was shocked to see the disappointment in his eyes. “I want you to focus on the McCreary case.”
“The drug lord, you mean?” Sarah knew what he was doing. There was nothing left for that case beyond the paperwork.
It was busy work designed to keep her mind away from things like Vanderfuck. She knew it, and the burly bearded man sitting across the desk from her knew it as well.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at his laptop screen. Sarah had been dismissed.
Sarah wiped her hands on her tight black pants and stood up.
“Opened, or closed?” She asked, standing by the door.
“Closed,” he replied, looking down towards the screen of his laptop.
She left it open.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hours later she was seated at the bar in her favorite pub. She’d been surprised to find, when she got there, that a few of her co-workers had decided to go for an after-work libation. She could see the awkwardness in their faces as they tried to explain.
“Thought you wouldn’t be up for it,” and “I was pretty sure I included you in the email.”
Finally, they’d offered her a seat, which she declined. She got it, after all. The sacred tradition of drinks was something which you had to earn. Fucking up missions and being placed on admin leave was not how you won membership.
Sarah pictured the conversations they were having, wondered how many of them were about her. She was sick of the whispers and the second-hand comments that she heard. That she’d always heard throughout her career, even starting back at the CIA training center in Chantilly where her drill instructor had screamed in her face that she was too weak, not cut out for this life.
“I’d bet that you’d say the same thing, you fucker,” she said, talking to her absent father.
“You need something?” Asked the bartender, hearing her say something.
“No, I’m fine. Wait, yeah, actually. You see that group of guys sitting over there?” He nodded that he had. “I want you to send them the absolute worst shot you can think of.”
He smiled and rummaged through his selection of bottles.
“We’ve got this grappa,” he said, picking up a bottle of clear alcohol. “I picked it up in Peru. It’s 120 proof. Probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had in my life. It
’s been five years, and I haven’t even been able to finish the first bottle. It’s basically glorified lighter fluid.”
“That’ll do,” she said. “Tell them it’s vodka.”
The bartender smiled.
“Rough day?” He asked, lingering for a moment too long on the slight cleavage spilling out from her top.
“Peachy keen, just minding my own fucking business.”
He put his arms up in a gesture that said “sorry” and went about pouring the shots. Sarah smiled when she heard the sounds of disgust coming from the table behind her.
“Nieminen, that’s some of the most messed up shit I’ve ever drunk,” someone called from behind her, laughing. She turned and acknowledged it with a smile and a wave.
Maybe there was hope still, to get back into the club.
She had a few drinks and then she had a few more. An idea, a crazy idea, had formed in her head.
Can I go to Berlin alone? She asked herself. Undoubtedly it would mean her badge and her gun. And despite her feelings towards her exclusion from the fraternity of CIA operatives, her job was her life.
If she wasn’t a part of the agency, what would she do with herself? It was her identity; it was a reason to get up in the morning.
Sarah had grown up wanting to become a CIA operative. From a young age, she’d hung around the Sheriff’s clubhouse in her hometown of Marquette, Michigan with her daddy.
That had been before he had met some tart named Debra and decided that she was more important than his baby girl and his wife, of course.
The last time she’d seen her daddy was on her eighteenth birthday. He had flown all the way back from California to surprise her at her party. She’d been so upset that he’d been there that she had wanted to scream in his face.
But her mother who somehow always stayed so damn reasonable had talked her down.
“He’s just do-een what he think is best,” she had said with the strong upper-peninsula Yooper accent that Sarah herself had grown up with.
At that moment in time, Sarah didn’t know how her mother could be so calm and so rational. It wasn’t until years later that she’d realized that her mother was very much like a duck – calm and composed on the surface but paddling like hell beneath the water.
The party had gone decently well up until that point. There’d been laughter and cake and that warm fuzzy feeling in your heart that told you that – at that moment – everything was perfect.
That was, until Sarah’s boyfriend at the time – a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Mark – arrived.
“Who dis poika?” Her daddy had demanded, saying the Finnish word for boy.
Her boyfriend Mark hadn’t much liked that and had gotten in his face. They’d screamed, and they pushed and finally, they came to blows. All the while Sarah had been yelling at them both, begging them to stop.
Finally, she ran upstairs in tears and slammed the door, refusing to open it to anyone. She broke up with Mark a few days later and hadn’t seen her father since.
Sarah blinked her soft brown eyes. What had made her think of that? It had been years since she had thought of that night.
Not the time for fucking distractions.
Of course, if she were to follow through with the idea forming in her head leaving the agency might be the least of her concerns. She wouldn’t have to worry about any of that in prison, after all.
Sarah caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar top.
You look tired, girl, she said to herself, fixing a stray lock of brown hair that had decided to rebel from its comrades.
Hell, she felt tired. Lately, her insomnia had resurfaced once again. She would toss and turn all night and, when she finally got to sleep, there would often be nightmares.
Mo had told her in no uncertain terms to stay. Connor Browne would have said the same, would have preached reason and sensibility.
Would Dick Mitey tell her to go?
Somehow, from all the times she’d spoken with him, she’d come to love his way of looking at the world. It was much more straightforward, she realized than that of most people. Dick would think with his heart, not his head.
There was something pure and innocent about that. A carefree way of looking at the world that so many people lost as they grew into adolescence.
Dick would go to Berlin because he would think it was the right thing to do.
Sarah grimaced, remembering the stacks of comic books which they had found in Dick’s apartment when they raided it.
He would go to Berlin because that’s what he felt a hero would do. He didn’t take account of the real-life repercussions which actions had. She could go, pay her way but then what.
She’d be alone in a foreign nation, walking into a den of snakes.
That didn’t seem like a smart idea.
And when she got home – if she got back - then there would be a wealth of problems to deal with again. She would have to face the consequences of her actions, whatever she decided to do.
Sarah took a long pull from her glass, tapping it against the wood countertop of the bar.
When everybody’s telling you to stay isn’t it the best course of action to just fucking stay? Mo was right after all – the CIA’s arm was long. Sooner or later Vanderfuck would turn up again. And they’d make their move then with the deadly precision of the best spy agency on the planet.
Adrian Vandervoort. The man scared her more than she’d ever admitted to a living soul. She remembered in her nightmares the bestial look on his face and the terrible strength in his arms as he had pressed her to the hotel room bed. She’d never felt so helpless before.
If she hadn’t had her pistol, well, Sarah shuddered at the thought.
He was taunting her from half a world away. Dick Mitey was the carrot that was dangling in front of her.
“Come and take it,” she could almost hear him say in that smarmy British accent.
“Another one,” she said curtly to the bartender. He nodded and began filling a short tumbler with amber liquid and exchanged it for her empty glass.
She looked into the mirror behind the dimly lit bar. Her co-workers were leaving. Not a single one waved goodbye as they walked out of the bar.
Fuckers. She’d prove them wrong about her, somehow.
After her sixth glass, Sarah had made up her mind. She pulled out her smartphone and keyed a quick message to Mohammad Al-Azhar, her fingers blazing across the keypad.
“Hey Mo, I’ve decided that you’re right. I’m going to take some time off and try and get my head on right.”
Even though she had drunk six glasses of whiskey, with a seventh on the way, Sarah’s mind was completely lucid. She had made up her mind and had made her peace.
I have to go.
Sarah Nieminen opened up her phone’s web browser and began looking at flights to Berlin. The bartender dropped off the drink at the table, which Sarah raised in a silent toast to her dear friend.
This one’s for you, Connor.
But she reconsidered. It wasn’t just for Connor anymore. It was for her as well, and for all the people who Adrian Vandervoort had ever brutalized or murdered.
A walking shit-stain like that shouldn’t be permitted to exist.
Vanderfuck, I’m coming for you, she thought, sipping her drink and feeling the strong alcohol warm her body.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dick Mitey found himself in a holding cell similar to the one he had escaped from mere days beforehand.
At least there’s a window here.
Truthfully, though, there were quite a few differences between this new cell and his old one. For instance, the guards seemed to be police officers, not prison guards. Many of them even spoke English fluently enough for Dick to have conversations with them.
So far, he realized, he was an enigma to them. That he escaped from prison had been pretty obvious – the arresting officers had taken less than a minute to find his discarded jumpsuit on the ground behind a maple
tree, but they had been unable to determine which prison he’d escaped from.
There hadn’t been a prison anywhere near where he had been picked up.
Dick had been as helpful as he could be with them on this, even going so far to point it out on a map where he thought he had been incarcerated (he’d been off by many hundreds of miles, but it’s the effort that counts).
Far From Ordinary Page 20