Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  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.

  28.

  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 privileges and, oh, what was it–”

  The 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 shifted 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 desk. 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.

  “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 and 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.”

  29.

  “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?”