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

by C. T. Wente

  He grabbed his empty glass and stood up.

  As he headed towards the bar, a man Rick hadn’t noticed suddenly rose from a nearby table and stepped in the aisle in front of him. He was tall and well built, perhaps a few inches taller than Rick’s own six-foot frame, with blonde hair and stylish new clothes. The man moved quickly, and Rick realized with a sudden feeling of dread that the man was also heading towards the bartender – and the package laying on the counter.

  Rick followed him to the bar counter and calmly sat down as the tall blonde man stepped up to the bartender and smiled.

  “Hallo, Henrick,” the man said with a friendly voice.

  The bartender smiled in response.

  “Deed mijn pakket eindelijk aankomen?”

  A few barstools away, Rick listened with a growing sense of alarm. What the hell is he asking? he wondered as the bartender looked at the man suspiciously. As if reading Rick’s mind, the bartender glanced at the package before replying in English.

  “This is your package?” he asked with a thick Dutch accent, sliding the small box in front of him.

  “Indeed it is,” the man responded in perfect, American-sounding English. Rick noticed that the man was extraordinarily handsome. He briefly wondered if Amsterdam attracted a disproportionately high number of people endowed with such good looks.

  “So you are…” the bartender glanced at the name on the package. “Hubbell Gardner?”

  “In the flesh.”

  The bartender’s friendly smile faded. “May I see some identification?”

  The man stared at the bartender for a moment before laughing uncomfortably. His eyes flickered at the package. “Well, that’s the funny thing… I somehow managed to forget my wallet this morning. But I can assure you that I’m the person this package was intended for.”

  Rick listened intently as he watched the exchange from the corner of his eye.

  “I’m sorry,” the bartender replied. “But I can’t give you this package without some proof of identification.” He laid his hand protectively on top of the box.

  “Right, of course,” the blonde man replied. He glanced embarrassingly over his shoulder at Rick. Rick realized he was staring at the man and abruptly smiled. The man studied him briefly before turning and slapping his hand on the bar. “I think I have an idea!” he said excitedly.

  “What is that?” the bartender asked.

  “How about I tell you exactly what’s in the package, and then you open it? If I’m right about the contents, the package must belong to me.”

  The bartender looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “And if you’re wrong? What do I tell the person who comes in and finds their package opened?”

  The blonde man leaned his muscular body against the bar and flashed another smile. “Just cut along the edge and have a peek inside. Assuming I’m wrong, the rightful owner won’t even notice. But I’m a betting man, and I’ll bet you a few t-shirts and a box of Girl Scout cookies that I’m right.”

  The bartender tapped his fingers against the package for a moment before finally sighing and nodding his head. He grabbed a knife from under the counter and carefully sliced open the top edge of the box. From his seat a few feet away, Rick watched transfixed. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his head as the bartender peered inside and lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Well?” the blonde-haired man said calmly, leaning in closer.

  The bartender shook his head as he closed the package and looked up him with a smile. “May I have one of the t-shirts?”

  38.

  “What the hell do you mean, someone else took the package?” Jack Preston screamed into the phone, his voice seething with anger.

  “I’m… I’m sorry sir,” Agent Martin stammered. “A man walked into the bar just moments after the package was delivered and convinced the bartender it belonged to him.”

  “And just how did he manage to do that, Agent?”

  “Well, he bet the bartender that he could tell him what was in the package. And apparently he was right.”

  “So?” Preston asked expectantly.

  “So what, sir?”

  “So what the hell did he say was in the package?”

  “Oh right… sorry sir. He said there were a couple of t-shirts and a box of cookies. Girl Scout cookies to be precise.”

  “And did you see anything that would confirm this?”

  “No sir,” Rick replied. “But I have to assume he was right. The bartender gave him the box. He even asked if he could have one of the t-shirts, but the guy wouldn’t let him have one. He said it was for his own good.”

  “So where is this man now?” the Director demanded. “Please tell me you didn’t just let him walk out.”

  “Well, yes sir, I did let him walk out. But I’m following him. He’s in the taxi ahead of me.”

  “And where does he appear to be heading?”

  “I believe he’s heading towards the airport, sir.”

  “Alright,” Preston replied, pausing to think. “When you get there, stay on him, but not too closely. Even if he doesn’t know he’s being followed, he’s probably going to take precautions to make sure of it before he gets to his boarding gate. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir,” Agent Martin replied. “I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  “Get your ass on whatever flight he’s taking, and call me the moment you know where you’re heading. Got it?”

  “Yes sir, understood.”

  “Nice work, Agent Martin. Call me with an update… and don’t lose him,” Preston said flatly before immediately ending the call.

  “Thank you, sir,” Rick said into the dead line before tucking his cellphone back into his jacket pocket. He looked over at the taxi driver and spoke with an awkward tone of superiority.

  “Stay close, but not too close. Understood?”

  “I understand. Not too close,” the Dutch driver replied quietly.

  Rick nodded his head smugly and adjusted his position in the passenger seat as the driver gently eased off the gas. Two hundred meters ahead, the blonde man’s taxi sped down the A4 motorway towards the airport.

  ∞

  Tall Tommy sat in the backseat of the taxi, staring at the package in his hands. Through the knife-torn corner of the box, he could see the blue cloth of a t-shirt and the familiar green color of a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. He stuck his finger into the open corner and quickly ripped open the package. The taxi driver glanced up at the sound and eyed him suspiciously through the rear-view mirror before returning his attention to the busy motorway. Tall Tommy pulled the

  t-shirts and the box of cookies from the box and laid them on the seat next to him. He then gently picked up the last item from inside and looked at it closely.

  The white envelope was sealed and unmarked. It was thin, making him believe it contained only a single sheet of paper inside. He held it to his nose and inhaled slowly, glancing up at the taxi driver who was once again watching him through the mirror. Beyond the faint smell of the sealing adhesive, the envelope held no scent.

  “Which terminal, sir?” the taxi-driver asked flatly.

  “International, please,” Tall Tommy replied.

  He held the envelope for a moment, hesitating with uncertainty before finally tearing it open. A single page of stationary fell into his hand. After one last glance at the driver, he unfolded the letter and began reading.

  39.

  Joe’s Last Stand Tavern

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  November 29, 9:38pm

  The Constellation of Route 66

  Dear Mysterious Joe’s Last Stand Guy, a.k.a. “Hubbell” –

  Enclosed, please find more of the Joe’s Last Stand t-shirts you’re so fond of wearing, along with the money you provided for their purchase. Joe, the bar owner, has found your letters to be entertaining, and given their cult status at the bar, lucrative enough to extend his gratitude in the form of some free shirts. Don’t be too
overwhelmed with this gesture, as the actual cost to produce these shirts is less than two dollars each. To be honest, the fact that you sent more than the long-established price of twelve dollars for each of these shirts leads me to question your intelligence.

  On another note, I wish to state for the record that I am breaking all self-imposed codes of conduct by responding to your letter. If you think this is a thinly veiled compliment, don’t. But even after six letters, I still find myself believing that you somehow know more about me than I do about you. So I request that we level the proverbial playing field here and shed some light on a topic of mild interest in this quiet little corner of the world – that topic of interest being you.

  I’m not requesting anything out of the ordinary; nothing more than what two people would normally know of each other after a quick introduction or perhaps five minutes over coffee. If you could answer three simple questions for me – beginning with what you’re up to, continuing with why you’re writing me, and concluding with a plausible reason for why you won’t reveal your identity – then I believe we’ll be on much more equitable terms.

  That’s all I’m asking. No more, no less. Perhaps your response will get us off to a good start, or maybe just an awkward finish. Either way, reinstating my normal code of conduct now lies entirely in your hands.

  You have my attention, so make it count.

  Ta-ta

  - Jeri

  p.s. Did you honestly think the alias ‘Hubbell Gardner’ was clever? Anyone in the developed world with an iota of interest in movies knows Robert Redford’s character from ‘The Way We Were’. You’re going to have to do better than that.

  40.

  “Your twenty-four hours are almost up, Jack.” The gruff voice of HSI Director Connolly rang out loudly over the speakerphone in Preston’s Phoenix office. “So what have you got?”

  “The situation has changed,” Preston replied matter-of-factly as he stared at his computer screen and punched at the keys. “My agent in Amsterdam reported in. It appears there’s still something in play.”

  “Give me the details.”

  “A package arrived today from Coleman’s source as we expected. My agent was waiting there as directed, but someone else claimed the package before he could. Took it and immediately headed for the airport.”

  “What do we know about him?” Connolly asked.

  “Tall, Caucasian man. Presumably American. Well-built with blonde hair. No other information on him right now, but according to my agent, the man was clearly expecting the package. My agent followed him from the bar, and within an hour he was boarding a flight to Beijing.”

  “And where exactly is he now?”

  Preston paused briefly at the question as he stared at his computer monitor. “Our agent lost him in Beijing.”

  “No, you mean your agent, Jack,” Connolly replied with a disgusted tone. “Good god, it’s a miracle your agent managed to follow him as far as China assuming he’s a professional. And I have no doubt we’re dealing with a professional here.”

  Preston nodded his head. “I’m sure we are. I’m also sure there are a lot more players involved in this than the two lying dead in an Amsterdam morgue.”

  “Be careful with your assumptions,” Connolly retorted. There was a pause as he took a deep drag of his cigarette. “I got a briefing from the National Security Council about an hour ago. If what I’m reading is correct, only one of the men neutralized in the Amsterdam hotel was directly involved in this.”

  Preston stopped typing and looked over at the speaker phone. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the Dutch police had already been monitoring the Hungarian named Vida as part of a large sex trafficking investigation. They’d had phone taps and surveillance on him for months. Apparently they’d collected more than enough evidence to convict him of trafficking young Hungarian girls into the Netherlands. But what they did not have was a single shred of evidence that suggested he was involved in an international terrorist organization. The report also indicates he was more than a few bricks shy of a full load when it came to intelligence. Not exactly the profile of a rogue terrorist, Jack. As incredible as it may seem, it appears this Vida moron was just a common thug who was unlucky enough to be holed up at the hotel when Murstead’s team showed up.”

  Preston winced as Connolly suddenly erupting into a loud fit of coughing. He shook his head in disbelief. “Leave it to the fucking CIA. They kill a guy by accident and he still ends up being a criminal. Jesus, some agencies just get

  all the luck.”

  Connolly continued coughing.

  “Well, the good news for us is that there’s definitely something still in play. And it seems the Langley boys aren’t aware of it.”

  “I haven’t heard anything from my channels that suggests otherwise,” Connolly replied, his voice weak from coughing. “But we need more information – starting with the goddamn identity of Agent Coleman’s source in Flagstaff.” He paused and cleared the phlegm from his voice before speaking clearly into the phone.

  “It’s time to tighten the screws on your boy again, Jack.”

  41.

  The first muted rays of morning sun filtered through the living room blinds and settled on Tom Coleman’s sleeping face. Tom twitched and blinked as he slowly woke up, silently cursing the beer that was still sloshing painfully around in his skull from the night before. A few minutes later he rose from the couch and immediately began picking up the empty drinking glasses that were neatly arranged on the coffee table. It had been the same routine for the last three mornings, the same routine since he’d returned home from Langley.

  He glanced out the living room window and impulsively shivered. A deep frost covered the neighborhood outside. Across the street, Tom’s neighbor carefully shuffled from his front door to his car. Tom watched with a pang of envy as the man half-heartedly scraped at the ice on his windshield before jumping into the driver’s seat and heading off to work. As the car disappeared from view, Tom noticed the same maroon-colored sedan he’d seen several days before once again parked further down the street. He studied it curiously for a moment, then shook his head and walked dejectedly into the bedroom. Thirty minutes later he was showered and dressed. He then fixed a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, finished half of it, and spent an hour cleaning and re-straightening things around the house before once again facing the stark reality of his situation.

  I have nowhere else to go.

  Tom stood in his living room, deep in thought. He tried not to think about the meeting with Alex and his shit-bag lawyer. His anger was still too intense to evaluate the situation objectively. But one thing was now certain– Alex had been using him from the start. He’d played on Tom’s dream of being in the CIA to get exactly what he had needed, then tossed him aside like some nameless fucking informant. Tom balled his hands into tight fists and breathed slowly, forcing himself to remain calm as he began pacing back and forth across the living room floor. He focused his thoughts on what he needed to do now. The CIA is a closed door he told himself slowly, letting the words sink in. I need to focus on getting my old job back. I need to get back on Jack Preston’s good side. I need to convince him this wasn’t my idea, that I was used by the CIA. I need to get my life back to normal…

  He stopped pacing and took another deep, calming breath.

  And then, when everything’s done, I’ll focus my hatred on Alex.

  Tom smiled briefly at the thought before another, more somber one came to mind. Standing in his living room, he suddenly realized there was one other thing he needed to do. He strolled into the kitchen, grabbed his car keys, and headed off into the frigid cold morning.

  ∞

  “Holy Christ, the prodigal son returns,” Chip said as Tom walked into the dark warm interior of the saloon and settled onto the barstool next to him. “What brings you here so early?”

  “I was just going to ask you the same question,” Tom replied. “Don’t you ever
take a day off?”

  “I take every day off. That’s why I’m always here.”

  Tom nodded his head as he took off his gloves and carefully arranged them in their usual spot in front of him. “Well, I suppose I’m taking the day off too.”

  “Well good for you,” Chip responded. “I’m sure Jeri will be happy to set you up.”

  Tom looked over at the corner behind the counter. There, curled up on her stool with a book in hand, Jeri glanced up and gave him the slightest hint of smile. He smiled awkwardly and gave her a quick nod.

  “Haven’t seen you for a few days,” Chip continued, his blue eyes studying Tom closely. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” Tom answered dismissively. “Just busy. You know how it goes.”

  “I believe I do.” The old man raised his beer glass and took a drink. The two men watched silently as Jeri poured a fresh beer from the tap and walked it over to Tom.

  “Thanks Jeri,” Tom said as he pushed a five-dollar bill across the counter. He stared at her cautiously until she looked up at him, her deep, amber-brown eyes meeting his. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thanks,” Jeri replied flatly. She grabbed the cash and walked over to the register.