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

by C. T. Wente

  This was not going to be easy.

  Around him, rows of dilapidated dormitory buildings seemed to stretch out in every direction. He studied their gray forms carefully as he marched through the narrow maze of corridors and courtyards that connected them to the massive industrial complex nearby. A mosaic of hanging laundry and piled rubbish cluttered nearly every one of the small balconies. Faded newspaper covered the few windows that punctured the tall facades of reinforced concrete. Above him, the upper floors disappeared into the ash-colored smog that hung incessantly over the city. Unfortunately, other than a few subtle variations in their states of decay, the buildings all looked identical.

  He quickened his pace with a renewed sense of urgency. The phone call from Director Preston just a few hours earlier had stirred him from another restless night in his tiny Beijing hotel room. But this time the news had been good. Very good. Thanks to some recent intelligence, the details of which the Director wouldn’t disclose, Rick now had a possible location on the blonde-haired man he’d lost four days earlier at the Beijing airport after arriving from Amsterdam. He was still scolding himself for the fuck-up. He’d been certain he was following the right taxi from the airport, but the person who’d stepped out at their downtown destination had been neither tall nor blonde. Four days of nearly non-stop searching through the dense sprawl of downtown Beijing had been Rick’s self-imposed punishment. His conversation with the Director had been even more painful. Even now, the words Preston had whispered over the phone upon hearing of his mistake still echoed in his head.

  Find him, Agent Martin.

  Or don’t bother coming home.

  But Rick knew his luck had changed with this morning’s call. Even more so when he’d been told his target was believed to be in Dongying. Trains to the large industrial city on the coast ran hourly, and Dongying was less than 350 kilometers away. Within thirty minutes of receiving his new assignment, Rick had made his way to the massive main hall of the Beijing West Train Station and purchased his ticket.

  Now, as he walked in the dim light of dawn on the northeast side of the city, he wondered exactly how long it was going to take to find his fucking target.

  Rick glanced around warily. The large dorms were already beginning to stir with activity. A cacophony of footsteps and human voices filled the cold morning air as young men and women dressed in simple, monochromatic uniforms suddenly filled the corridors and courtyards. They eyed the tall, dark-haired American curiously as they made their way towards the nearby factories for another grueling sixteen-hour shift. Rick ignored them as they passed. His attention was instead focused on the large three-digit numbers painted on the corners of each building. He continued to thread his way through the labyrinth of dorms for another twenty minutes, barely noticing the quickly thinning crowd. When the number of the building he was searching for finally appeared before him, Rick realized he was once again walking alone.

  Building #847 stood at the southeast corner of dormitories that bordered the colossal factories within the complex. He stopped next to it and stared up at the grim façade. The lifeless building looked like something out of a bad horror film and a sense of foreboding briefly stirred in Rick’s stomach. He shook his head and stepped into the corridor that led to the elevators. Almost immediately he was struck by the smell of rotting waste.

  Of the four elevators located in the corridor, three stood open and useless. Their cramped interiors were filled ceiling-high with layers of decomposing trash. The fourth hummed noisily as Rick stepped up to its closed doors. He watched with growing impatience as the floor indicator light hovered unmoving on the sixth floor. A young girl in a factory uniform marched past him, watching him with a wry grin as she headed towards one of the building’s large open stairwells. A few minutes later, Rick sighed in frustration and begrudgingly followed after her up the stairs.

  ∞

  Inside his small ICE office, Tom leaned back from his laptop and stared at copies of the letters spread across his desk, each of them marked heavily with red ink. Normally such messiness would have caused something of a panic attack in him. The random arrangement of pages and thick scratches of ink was a picture of disorder and chaos. And yet, at this moment, the disorder didn’t bother him at all. In fact, as he looked at the landscape of paperwork, Tom felt something else entirely.

  Validation.

  Despite their conversation earlier that morning, Tom had ignored the Director’s instructions to focus his attention on Jeri Halston. As far as he saw it, there simply wasn’t any point. It wasn’t that he failed to see Preston’s logic. After all, the letters were addressed to her. And even if she wasn’t the person the messages were intended for, she almost certainly knew them. But a terrorist? Not a chance. Jeri might be a cold, introverted bitch that didn’t like men, but she wasn’t a terrorist. Tom was sure of it. Which meant there was only one real question worth asking.

  Who were the letters really meant for?

  It was that question that led Tom back to his cramped office following his meeting with Preston. He’d immediately pulled out his own copy of the letters and investigation summary that had been handed over to the Director. It had taken several hours to painstakingly analyze the details of each murder and look for statements in the corresponding letter that matched those details. But now, as he stared at the summary of what he’d found, Tom was certain he was on to something.

  Letter #1 / Assam, India:

  Corresponding Incident: Marcello Avogadro / killed in vehicle collision / subject was driving in a tuk-tuk / flammable materials in one of the vehicles caught fire and quickly consumed the body.

  Statements made in letter: took my last tuk-tuk ride to the market last night, which means this assignment is done / I’m burned out baby

  Letter #2 / Al Jubail, Saudi Arabia:

  Corresponding Incident: No known incident

  Statements made in letter: I am in Al Jubial / waiting for a new assignment

  Letter #3 / Port Harcourt, Nigeria:

  Corresponding Incident: Director of Research Shahid Al Dossari killed / explosive device in his hotel room

  Statements made in letter: don’t blow up at me / it’s going to go off / one in four

  Letter #4 / Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela:

  Corresponding Incident: Derek Birch killed / falls overboard on a private yacht

  Statements made in letter: Brainybuddies / there are four of these little bastards / cash cow / drowning in charm / I’ve nabbed one of these little bastards, and the other three are practically in the bag

  Letter #5 / Kaliningrad, Russia:

  Corresponding Incident: Researcher Tatyana Aleksandrov killed in a laboratory cafeteria / explosive device in vending machine

  Statements made in letter: a lowly vending machine in the loathsome global cafeteria

  Letter #6 / Amsterdam, The Netherlands:

  Corresponding Incident: CIA raid on target’s hotel room / death of target

  Statements made in letter: were planning to throw me off course

  Letter #7 / Dongying, China:

  Corresponding incident: -- unknown –

  Statements made in letter: -- unknown --

  Tom leaned back in his chair and shook his head in frustration. The messages had been staring out at him from the beginning, hidden in plain sight within the words of the letters. Why had he not seen it sooner? He silently chastised himself for a moment before realizing there was no point in questioning his competence at this stage in the investigation. Regardless of whatever mistakes he had made, he was still the only one who had managed to follow the terrorist’s trail. And now he finally knew what the man was up to.

  Or at least nearly knew.

  He leaned forward and quickly typed a brief summary beneath the notes.

  - Death of Marcello Avogadro in Assam marked the completion of a previous assignment by target.

  - Target traveled to Al Jubail where he obtained current assignment.

  - Current assignm
ent involves the assassination of four Petronus Energy researchers

  - Target successfully carried out three of the four assassinations prior to trip to Amsterdam.

  - Amsterdam trip was designed to throw investigating agencies from target’s trail

  - Target is currently in China to complete the fourth and final assassination of assignment.

  Tom looked at the summary, confident in his conclusions. He was now certain than the statements in the letters were in fact status updates on the murders that were intended for someone here in Flagstaff. Unfortunately, they didn’t reveal any clue as to who that person might be. And trying to find them without something to go on would be next to impossible. He couldn’t very well detain every person that walked into the bar and glanced at the shrine of letters. Even if he did, what then? What would he be looking for?

  Only one other piece of evidence remained that Tom hadn’t fully examined – the letter that arrived yesterday morning. Between Joe’s aggravated state and the unexpected discovery of being followed, Tom had failed to take a photo of it when he was at the saloon. Considering what he’d just uncovered in the first six letters, there was little doubt something useful was hidden in this latest letter as well. Perhaps it might reveal something about the final assassination in China. But there wasn’t much time. He needed to get to Joe’s and examine that letter immediately.

  Tom glanced at his watch and was shocked to see that it was already after 4pm. He quickly saved the document on his laptop and re-filed his notes before grabbing his coat and heading out the door. Halfway through the first floor corridor of the ICE offices, the same colleague who was always asking Tom to lunch suddenly appeared in the hallway before him.

  “Hey Tommy-boy,” his coworker said with a sarcastic grin. “What’s the rush? Getting ready to raid Taco Bell for illegals again?”

  “It’s classified,” Tom said tersely as he brushed past him.

  “Alright… alright,” his coworker replied as he raised his hands defensively. “Jesus man, what’s going on around here? First you disappear for a while, then Rick Martin disappears, and now you’re running around all serious and secretive. It’s like we’re becoming the CIA or something.”

  Tom shrugged dismissively as he walked towards the exit, mumbling a response under his breath.

  “Fuck the CIA.”

  ∞

  Rick trudged up the last flight of stairs of building #847 and stepped cautiously onto the dormitory’s top floor. Despite being in decent shape, he felt winded and slightly dizzy. He briefly wondered if he was coming down with some form of Chinese flu as he turned up the collar of his jacket and studied his surroundings. On his right, through a thinning veil of fog, the open corridor offered a panoramic view of the dorms and factory buildings that formed the vast industrial complex. In front of him, carved in regular intervals by the recessed entryways of apartments, the fifteenth floor stretched for several hundred yards before terminating at another large stairway. Rick stared down the empty walkway and tried to ignore the nervous excitement that now gripped his stomach. The Director’s final words from their conversation that morning once again echoed in his head.

  For better or worse, the fate of this investigation once again rests in your hands, Agent Martin. So let me make one thing clear– this is your last chance. I strongly suggest you make the most of it.

  “I’ll make the most of it, motherfucker,” Rick mumbled to himself as he shrugged at the cold, damp air. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and shot a furtive glance at the stairwell behind him before heading down the walkway.

  Apartment 1549 stood near the center of the long, open corridor. Rick glanced around nervously as he moved towards it. He was now dangerously exposed to anyone that might appear from one of the apartments or stairwells. His footsteps echoed against the cold concrete, forcing him to slow his pace. As he neared the apartment, he suddenly wondered if someone might be lurking unseen in the recessed entryway. He braced for the possibility and glanced quickly at the rusty steel door as he passed. He then nearly stopped in surprise.

  The apartment door was slightly open.

  Rick continued down the corridor, his eyes darting rapidly as he replayed the image of door #1549 in his mind. Were there lights on inside? No. Any light coming from inside the apartment would have stood out against the dark recess of the entryway. He stopped and glanced around. The walkway and stairwells were still empty. Before fully knowing what he was planning to do, Rick turned and paced back to the apartment. Without hesitating he pressed both hands against the door and stepped inside. His heart raced as he closed the door and spun around to face whoever might be waiting. He stared nervously into the dark interior of the small room, his senses on full-alert. Rick then exhaled with an overwhelming sense of relief. The apartment was empty.

  ∞

  “Oh Christ, not you again,” Joe Brown said angrily as the old door groaned opened and Tom entered the saloon. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

  Tom ignored the jeers from the bar owner as he stood in the entrance of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon and quickly stomped the wet snow from his black leather shoes.

  “Don’t even think of asking for a drink, agent-man,” Joe growled. “I only serve people who aren’t trying to fuck-over their own fellow Americans. Understood?”

  “Got it,” Tom said as he marched past the bar towards the far corner of the saloon. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  A handful of young co-eds seated at the bar watched with sudden interest as the heavyset bar owner grunted with irritation. Sitting nearby on his usual stool, Chip watched silently. His piercing blue eyes followed Tom across the room.

  “Fine,” Joe mumbled. “Go look at the letters and write your little investigation notes. Then get the hell out of here.”

  Tom stopped in front of the shrine and immediately focused his attention on the letter from China that arrived the day before. He scanned the precise, all-too-familiar handwriting, looking for anything that stood out as particularly odd or suspiciously phrased. There has to be something here he thought as he read. Then something caught his eye. He looked again at the first paragraph. When he came to the final sentence, he read it carefully and stopped.

  Seriously… have you ever seen The Iceman Cometh?

  Tom took a step back as his lips silently mouthed the words. His eyes slowly widened as a new meaning began to reveal itself.

  …ever seen The Iceman Cometh?

  …The Iceman cometh?

  ...The ICE man cometh.

  Tom suddenly ripped the letter from the wall and began running towards the door, his wet shoes slipping noisily on the old hardwood floor.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Joe yelled as he watched Tom sprint past the bar with the letter clutched in his hand. “Stop right there you little flat-headed piece of shit!” The bar owner ducked under the counter and popped up on the other side, his thick hands curled into fists, but Tom had already disappeared out the front door. Joe turned and slammed his fist against the bar top, his face red with rage. He glanced over at Chip and shook his head. “Can you believe the fucking nerve of that guy?”

  Chip silently shook his head at Joe before staring out the frost-framed window at the front of the saloon. His eyes followed the running figure of Tom Coleman as he ran across the street and quickly vanished behind a white cloak of falling snow.

  ∞

  Rick Martin stood at the entry of apartment #1549 and carefully examined his surroundings. The single-room apartment, no more than ten feet wide and perhaps twice that in length, was dark and unfurnished. A stale mixture of cigarette smoke and mildew hung heavily in the air. On the floor in front of him, a rectangular patch of relatively clean concrete revealed the spot where a rug once laid. Other than that, the only sign of recent occupation was a cook pot left on the small stove in the far corner of the room. A flimsy-looking door leading to the apartment’s balcony stood next to the stove, the small pane of glass in its center
covered with torn, age-yellowed newspaper. Rick walked towards it, pausing at the stove and laying his hand on its surface. As expected, it was cold.

  I’m too late he thought as he ripped the newspaper from the window and peered out at the balcony. A large black plastic bag sat in the corner, filled to the top with what appeared to be trash. Rick opened the door and gingerly grabbed the bag, tossing it inside before kicking it over with his shoe and scattering the contents across the floor. He pulled a pen from his pocket and began carefully poking through the rubbish, wincing at the smell. Nearly all of the items seemed to fall into two categories – empty packs of cigarettes, mostly Camel Lights, and leftover containers of street-bought food. A few pages of a newspaper were also mixed in, printed in unintelligible Chinese. He studied them closely for a date but couldn’t find anything even remotely decipherable.

  After five minutes of fruitlessly picking through the trash, Rick stood up in frustration. He walked over and picked up the empty trash bag and roughly snapped it in the air to see if anything else was left inside. As he did, a flat, white-framed object flew out and twirled gently in the air before settling face-down on the floor.

  He bent down to examine it.

  Looking closer, Rick realized it was a Polaroid photograph like the ones his parents took when he was a kid. He flipped it over with his pen and gazed at the smiling face of a middle-aged Chinese man dressed in a white lab coat. The man’s dark eyes stared out with intelligence as he stood in a large room surrounded by scientific-looking instruments. Along the bottom edge of the photo, the number “1556” was written in heavy black ink. Rick picked up the Polaroid and studied it curiously until the meaning of the photo and number suddenly struck him.

  This man is the target. He’s in apartment 1556.