by Joseph Nagle
Michael smiled and replied, “I think you are looking at the new Deputy Director of the CIA.”
Sonia looked at her husband, smiled, and then kissed him.
A Few Weeks Later
Denver, Colorado
Michael was sitting in his front room watching the Denver Nuggets lose, again, to the Lakers in the first round of the playoffs. Pointing his remote control at the television, he hit the power button turning it off.
“They need to get rid of Iverson, he’s so overrated,” a frustrated Michael said to no one in particular.
Sonia was on-call and was at the hospital which meant that Michael was left to the desperate plight of the half-rate Nuggets and a mound of paper work. As the new Deputy Director of the CIA, Michael still hadn’t become accustomed to the mundane back office aspects of the job and stared at the pile of work on his coffee table. Scattered about the room were boxes of household items: the new job meant that they would have to move closer to Langley and Washington D.C.
Letting out a shallow sigh, Michael was about to grab another file to work on when the doorbell rang.
Standing abruptly, Michael walked around the boxes - filled with his life - and to the door; he looked through the peephole. On the other side was a Fed-Ex deliveryman. Instantly, Michael’s instincts fired up; something didn’t feel right. Next to the door was an antique wooden carving that hung at face level on the wall; Michael and Sonia had picked up the one-hundred-fifty year-old artifact while traveling in India. At the base of the wooden carving was a small hidden compartment, and the main reason Michael had bought the hand-carved sculpture. Michael reached over to it and depressed an unseen button. A small door flipped open exposing the small compartment. Michael put his hand into it and pulled out a Kel-tec P32 pistol.
Michael’s left arm was shielded by the door as he opened it, and in his left hand was the P32 pointed at the deliveryman and through the door. Looking at the man in uniform Michael said, “It’s a little late to be making deliveries isn’t it?”
“Sorry, sir, I am running behind schedule,” replied the Fed-Ex deliveryman.
In his hand, the deliveryman was holding a small envelope. He extended it out to Michael and said, “There’s no need to sign, have a good night, sir.”
Michael grabbed the envelope from the delivery man and noticed a golden ring on the man’s index finger. He saw the ring only for a fraction of a second, but that was all he needed. The ring had a golden bee engraved on its top.
The deliveryman nodded, smiled, and then he turned and walked away.
He watched as the deliveryman climbed into a Fed Ex truck and drove off. Michael closed the door, walked back to his front room, and sat down.
Turning the envelope over a few times, Michael saw that on its front it had his name, but no address. He opened the envelope; inside there was one sheet of paper and a photo. Michael looked at the photo; when he saw the man in it, he felt his temperature begin to rise. On the photo was the plump face of the Handler; the face of the man that had tried to kill Michael and his wife. Turning the photo over, on the back were the grid coordinates: 40º 43’ 42” N 73º 53’ 39” W.
Michael set down the photo and picked up the handwritten note; at its top was the Papal seal. He read the note, “A gift from a mutual friend; he will be missed. Take care, Michael. CC.”
Michael recognized the initials of Colonel Camini, smiled, and then set the note down. From his inside coat pocket, Michael pulled out his cell phone and tapped the black screen. This would be one call that he would enjoy making.
The End.