by C. T. Wente
“You’re kidding me.”
“Arriving at 9:25pm Central European time,” Preston replied, looking again at his watch. “He should be on the ground there in approximately two hours.” He leaned back in his chair and listened to what sounded like a stifled cough on the other end of the line.
“You actually sent one of your Homeland Security agents to Amsterdam?” Connolly asked in disbelief.
“One of our Homeland Security agents, Richard.”
“And just what are his qualifications?” Connolly demanded.
“His qualifications are exactly what this assignment requires,” Preston responded.
“Goddamn it, Jack!” Connolly’s southern drawl cracked with anger. “Is this your way of trying to make up for the colossal mishandling of that Coleman idiot? Because if it is, I can tell you right now you’re only setting the stage for a larger catastrophe with a half-baked idea like this.”
Preston brushed off the HSI Director’s comment. “Richard, if there’s one thing we agree on, it’s the time-sensitive nature of this situation. I was fortunate enough to receive information on the whereabouts of our terrorist target the same time the CIA did, and I decided to act upon that information. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe stealing headlines from the CIA and gaining the credibility and budgetary backing from Congress that the Department of Homeland Security deserves are still your top priorities, right?”
“Of course they are Jack, but–”
“Then it’s time we implemented the tactics and resolve to see this through, Richard– plain and simple. No more kowtowing to the CIA, especially when they’re operating on information this Department was coerced into providing.”
Connolly breathed a heavy sigh into the phone. Preston heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter flint as the HSI Director lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Those things will kill you, Richard.”
Connolly grunted bitterly. “You’re going to kill me first, Jack – and the entire Department of Homeland Security along with me.” He coughed again before speaking in a flat, defeated tone. “Let me make myself clear. I don’t agree in any way with your decision to send an unqualified, unsupported agent into the field. Nor do I have any intention of backing you up if and when he fails.”
“I didn’t think you would, Richard,” Preston replied flatly. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”
He clicked off the phone before Connolly could respond.
33.
He shot up from bed, his heart racing.
The dream began to vanish from his thoughts as quickly as the realization it was only a dream. He sat back on his elbows and tried to remember, his mind slowly corralling the disjointed images and shadows.
Then, in a flash, he remembered.
He was sitting at a table in a far corner of the old saloon, watching unseen as she drifted behind the counter. Her pale face stood out from the murky darkness. A figure stopped in front of her and she turned and smiled. A wayward lock of copper-brown hair was quickly tucked behind her ear. He watched as she poured the figure a drink, admiring her graceful movements, her sensual ease. Then more figures appeared at the bar and his view of her was blocked. The intervals of her appearance became shorter and less frequent. Suddenly the entire room was filled by a solid mass of humanity. He waited patiently for another glimpse of her, but it was hopeless. The crowd was too much. He finished his drink and reluctantly decided to leave. Then, as he stood to go, the crowd abruptly turned and looked at him. He started to speak when everyone suddenly collapsed; falling lifelessly to the floor as if connected to a single source of energy that was instantly extinguished. The room turned ghostly quiet as he looked up at the bar. She stood there staring back at him, her hazel-brown eyes as hard and cold as stone. Her eyes never left his as she bent down slowly and collected something behind the bar. She stood and held the object in her hands out towards him, gesturing as if it were his before placing it gently on the countertop.
The small cardboard box was tattooed with postage stamps and addresses, its corners and edges beaten and worn by its journey from some unknown place of origin. He found himself moving towards it; his legs moving beneath him, his Italian leather shoes stepping heavily onto the soft bodies that littered the floor. His eyes flickered back to her as the sound of his heartbeat began to rise in his ear, beating with a low measured whisper. Her stare burned into him as he reached the bar. Then, with sudden unexpected speed, she reached out and began to open the package. Her hands tore quickly at the heavy wrapping, the paper cutting her with the sharpness of razors as her fingers grabbed and pulled. To his horror he felt the ground begin to move beneath him, the bodies of the crowd slowly stirring to life. A hand reached up and grabbed him roughly, the fingers clawing painfully into his leg.
This isn’t right he thought with alarm. A wave of panic coursed through him as his heartbeat pounded deafeningly into his ear. He reached out wildly for her hands to stop her, to keep the package closed. No, don’t do it! Don’t open it! he screamed at her, but her bleeding hands pushed him away and continued pulling and tearing, pulling and tearing. Stop! Jeri stop! Jeri…please…STOP!
And then a blinding flash of light.
That was the last thing he could remember before waking.
He glanced over at his watch on the nightstand. 2:12 am. No more sleep tonight he thought wearily as he rubbed his eyes and flipped on the lamp next to him. He laid his head against the cracked headboard of the hotel bed and stared at the small desk across from him. There, arranged on the worn melamine desktop, sat an assortment of small metal canisters and electronic components, each labeled with a small white tag. Next to the desk, two long plastic shipping tubes with red labels warning “Flammable” rested against the wall. Like a Hollywood movie he thought as he shook his head and sat up from the stiff, squeaky mattress.
The fluorescent vanity light buzzed and flickered incessantly as he stood naked at the small bathroom sink. He waited patiently for the water to warm, ignoring the large black plastic bag that lay under a melting mound of ice in the bathtub. A weak stream of steam eventually rose from the faucet. He washed quickly, then dried himself with the small cloth that the Hotel Keizersgracht considered a towel before walking over to the wardrobe and dressing. Five minutes later, covered in blue scrubs and wearing latex gloves, he was finally awake and ready to start working.
∞
Almost two hours later, he stood back from the package and looked at it critically. He moved slowly around the room, carefully examining the placement and position of every item one last time before nodding in satisfaction.
Everything was finished.
He pulled the stained scrubs from his thin, muscular body and tossed them into the plastic trash bag he’d placed by the entry door. His stomach growled angrily as he stretched his arms over his head in exhaustion. He then tended to his tools. A few minutes later, with his tools cleaned and packed neatly in his backpack, he stripped off his latex gloves and tossed them into the trash bag. He was just beginning to grab an energy bar when he heard a soft knock on his door.
He moved quickly towards the edge of the door, listening intently. A moment later the knock repeated, this time louder than before. He glanced at his watch. It was 4:06am. Too early he thought as he rubbed at his forehead, perplexed. At the sound of a third knock he twisted the lock and slowly cracked open the door.
A timid shudder immediately caught his eye as he peered nervously into the narrow hallway. He glanced down at the motion and found himself staring at the frightened face of a small, dark-haired young boy. “Hi there,” he said softly as he opened the door and quickly glanced down the dimly lit hall. The corridor was empty. The boy, who appeared no older than six or seven years-old, said nothing as he stared up at him.
“Do you speak English?” he asked as he crouched down in the doorway. The child shyly stepping away and nodded his head affirmatively.
“Okay. Are you lost?” he asked calmly. The boy
considered the question for a moment before shaking his head.
“No? Good, now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, giving the boy a grin.
The boy began to smile, then paused as if confused. His face contorted into a frown as his mouth struggled to form the right words. “She…needs…help,” he said slowly.
“Who needs help?” he asked.
“Mama,” the boy replied, his pale face suddenly transforming into a pleading, frightened expression. He stepped forward and grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him towards the stairway at the end of the hall. “Please, please,” the boy’s high-pitched voice cried. “We go now!”
He stood up, resisting the child’s surprising strength as he pulled and tugged at him. “Okay, hold on,” he whispered, holding his finger to his mouth in a gesture to be quiet. “I need to get my things. Wait here.”
He released himself from the boy’s grip and quickly darted back into his room, closing the door to be sure the boy couldn’t see the scene inside. He tossed his tools into his backpack, then paused to briefly assess the room once again. His eyes flickered around the room before settling on the package. An odd feeling of foreboding rose inside of him as he stared at it, sending a sudden chill up his spine. He shook his head dismissively as he shouldered his backpack and grabbed the bag of trash by the door.
The boy fidgeted impatiently as he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. “Okay,” he said, taking the boy’s outstretched hand. “Let’s go.”
34.
Tom marveled at the scene around him.
Less than twenty-four hours after his conversation with Alex, he was standing next to his brother-in-law in the center of a large, state-of-the art control room deep in the lower levels of the CIA’s massive complex in Langley, Virginia as a team of mission specialists moved purposefully around them. In front of them, a mesmerizing symphony of data and images appeared and shifted on a massive digital display wall that Alex called “HUDSON”, his team’s affectionate term for the Heads-Up Display that projected an endless stream of critical mission data. From real-time satellite imagery and weather conditions to video feeds of jostling images from head-mounted cameras to even the heart rates of the Special Operations Group or “SOG” team members that were now moving into position on the ground, everything could be seen at a glance.
“Quite a show, isn’t it?” Alex said coolly as he watched his SOG team on the screen in front of them. He glanced over at Tom with a smug grin as he chewed on the end of toothpick.
“Not bad,” Tom replied quietly, unable to suppress the awe in his voice.
“It’s amazing what you can do with just a few hundred million dollars these days,” Alex said as he reached up and clicked a button on the small headset he was wearing. “Forrestal, this is Command. Are we ready?”
The control room’s speakers briefly crackled with static and then cleared as the sound of a strong male voice filled the air.
“Command, this is Forrestal. All teams are in first position, sir. Please confirm all feeds are online.”
“Affirmative. We’ve got all feeds,” Alex replied into his headset as the data appearing on HUDSON shifted once again. Six high-definition video feeds from the SOG team’s headset-mounted cameras were instantly magnified to fill the center of the wall. “Okay, Agent Forrestal… what are we working with?”
Tom watched as the SOG team leader suddenly appeared on screen. His thirty-something face was framed by short dark hair and a square jaw tightly clenched in concentration. Deep brown eyes stared into the camera with confident intelligence. Mounted to the corner edge of his protective glasses was the same miniscule video camera that one of his team members now used to broadcast him. Tom noticed that, unlike a normal military unit, Forrestal and his team wore a minimal amount of tactical gear. A black balaclava rolled down to his brow covered his head, while a black sweater noticeably absent of any rank or agency insignias covered his broad chest. The team leader spoke quietly into the camera.
“We’ve got exactly what we expected, sir. Target location sits on a very narrow corridor, flanked on the west side by the street and the canal. One narrow alleyway running on the south side of the building. Main entry on the street, ancillary entry from the back garden. In other words, minimal cover and very little room to maneuver, over.”
“Looks like you’re also working with minimal light.”
The video feed from Forrestal’s camera quickly nodded. “Affirmative, sir. No street lights. This guy picked a good location.”
“Right,” Alex said curtly. “Okay, your local time is 4:42am. Things will start getting busy around there in less than two hours. Get two pairs of men to positions two and three on the south and northeast ends of the hotel immediately. I want a full recon view of this place with thermals in five minutes.”
“Roger that,” Agent Forrestal replied.
In the control room, Tom watched the video feeds as four of the SOG team members moved stealthily through the narrow brick-walled alleyway, the tips of their assault rifles repeatedly popping into view in the lower edge of the screen.
Alex turned and gave him a menacing stare. “Now we’ll find out if the intel you provided is worth its weight in shit.”
Tom looked at his brother-in-law and smiled confidently. “Don’t worry, Alex. You’ll have another plaque on that Captain America wall of yours before you know it.”
∞
A few blocks from the hotel, the boy looked up at him as they turned into an unlit alleyway and tugged impatiently at his hand. “Hurry,” he said, his eyes wet and pleading.
“Who are we going to see?” he asked again.
“Mama.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong with mama?” he asked.
“Hurry!”
The alleyway was barely wide enough for his shoulders. The cool air smelled of urine and beer, and his shoes slipped on something unseen in the darkness beneath him. Then, without warning, the boy released his hand as they came to a small unmarked door in the wall. He produced a key from a thin chain around his neck and deftly inserted it into the lock. As it opened, a faint glow of light from inside illuminated the door’s surface, which he could now see was painted a bright red. The boy grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.
He quickly stepped into the cramped interior as the boy shut the door behind him. They stood in what appeared to be a makeshift kitchen, built from milk crates and stocked with canned foods and parchment paper-wrapped bread. Next to him, a rusty spigot sticking out from the brick wall dripped rhythmically into a tin bucket beneath it. A cockroach scurried erratically up the deep mortar line of the brick.
“This way,” the boy said, tugging impatiently at his hand. He was led towards a recess in the far corner of the room that opened to a short hallway. As they stepped into the narrow corridor, he could see the room that contained the source of the light. The boy sneezed and quickly wiped his hand against his jacket, then looked up at him and smiled.
“Do you like the Brainy Buddies?” he asked the boy.
The boy’s grin stretched even further as he nodded his head uncontrollably.
“Me too,” he replied softly.
“Anya!” the boy cried as they entered a narrow, windowless room. He ran to the side of a small bed that nearly filled the tiny space.
He watched as the boy placed his hand on the forehead of the frail-looking young woman tightly curled on her side in the center of the bed. Her long black hair stood out sharply from her sickly, ghost-pale complexion. Beads of perspiration covered her face and neck, and as he stepped closer towards the bed he could see her lean body shivering beneath the blanket that covered her.
“Anya,” the boy whispered, gently stroking at her hair, “Megtaláltam.”
The woman shuddered and slowly opened her eyes. “Jakob,” she whispered, giving him a weak smile. Her son pointed up at him. “Megtaláltam,” he repeated. She turned her head slowly and gazed up at him.
“My son said
he would find you,” she said with a heavy accent as her dark brown eyes looked him over. “I’m so happy he did. Thank you for coming.”
He slipped his backpack off his shoulder and kneeled down next to the bed. “I take it you’re a friend of Anna’s?” he asked as he pressed his hand against her forehead.
“Yes, Anna,” the woman answered weakly. “She said you helped her when she was sick.” She paused and swallowed with a pained grimace before continuing. “When she saw me today she said she knew a man that could help me. She said you always tell her when you are here so that you can help any of us that need help.”
He nodded as he took her pulse, remembering the night a few years before when he first met Anna. It had been a cold winter night. He’d been walking along the outer edge of the Rossebuurt, the Red Light District, when he’d heard the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning in pain. She was lying on a park bench when he found her, her body crumpled on the cold steel like a rag doll. Anna had not been sick, but drugged and badly beaten. He’d carried her the short distance back to his hotel and checked her into the room next to his, treating her cuts and contusions and setting a broken wrist and finger with the few supplies he’d had on hand. After three days Anna had recovered enough to walk. She thanked him, offered her services for free, and stared dumbfounded at him when he graciously declined. “I could use the good karma,” he said to her as he placed a small vial of painkillers in her unbroken hand. “So I help where I can.” She had cried and hugged him tightly, a genuine, surrendering display of raw gratitude that he still vividly remembered.
She then looked at him with red swollen eyes and told him between waves of sobs that many of her friends, prostitutes like her, were often in need of help. He told Anna he would help whenever he was here, and asked for a way to contact her. She scribbled an email address on a sheet of the hotel stationary and handed it to him. “Use this,” she said, her eyes looking into his with a mixture of emotions that made him uncomfortable. “This is how my family contacts me.” When he asked if they knew what she did, she smiled with a steely expression and said they had to – prostitution was the only profession that allowed an uneducated woman like her to support them.