The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  The map itself was a single sheet of centuries-old parchment. It was roughly the size of a legal document, with markings written in a language he did not recognize. Though it looked unremarkable, the secret it potentially held could prove incredibly important to their friends across the pond. Their sister Agency in Great Britain had initially given them the tip in the first place. If the map proved to be the real deal, as Reggie was pretty sure it was, Great Britain’s version of the Agency would also send a representative of their own to help in the investigation.

  First things first, however, and that meant delivering his report to his supervisors. He really hoped they hadn’t made up their minds yet about who would be assigned this case. It had been his job to retrieve the map; now he wanted to make sure Amy Sommers was the one chosen to follow up on it. She was ready. He just had to persuade the Powers That Be.

  It would be a hard sell, especially for something of this potential magnitude. If the map did indeed reveal the location of what they suspected it did, his supervisors might prefer a more seasoned agent to handle the case. Reggie thought this was the perfect opportunity for Agent Sommers to cut her teeth, especially if the Brits sent someone over. She wouldn’t have to go it completely alone on her first time out. And, of course, as her sponsor, he’d play a small part as her advisor as well.

  Though the Agency was a huge organization with a fairly large employee base, the headquarters was rarely the hub of activity. Most of its employees were field agents, out on assignments all over the world. This place was definitely the nucleus or more appropriately the brain of the Agency’s body, but, today, like always, it was quiet as a library.

  The meeting room he was headed to was located on the equivalent of the penthouse level, which, in the Agency’s case, meant it was the deepest floor underground. Even Reggie, who had been with the Agency for close to eighteen years, did not know exactly how many floors or offices the Agency contained. He did know however, this one was home to the Director’s and Deputy Director’s offices. As a Senior Agent, this was always where he met his bosses to give his final reports.

  He smirked when he realized Sommers was more than likely somewhere above him at this exact moment, being subjected to more of the Agency’s special brand of training and no doubt dealing with the frustration of prolonged inactivity in her usual pain in the butt manner. He almost felt sorry for whoever was assigned as her instructor for the day. Hopefully, after this meeting, he would have some good news for her.

  Amy Sommers was the first person he had actively recruited. They’d been through a lot together in a short period of time. With the craziness they had dealt with in Los Angeles, Sommers had proven she had the mettle and openness of mind to be a good agent. Now it was up to him to see she got a shot, and this particular case could quite possibly be the perfect opportunity.

  The briefcase brushed against his leg as his long strides carried him down the hall. This brief intrusion into his trip down memory lane served as a reminder to stay focused and remember where he was. Not that he could ever really forget he was several stories underground holding a case that quite possibly contained a secret which could bring one of the world’s most prominent countries to its proverbial knees.

  In his early years, he would have stood outside and knocked politely on the door while waiting for an invitation to enter. Now, being the grizzled veteran he was, he no longer stood on ceremony. He did not hesitate, but grabbed the polished silver door handle and let himself in. He had done this so many times over the years it had become an automatic response. It was not that he disrespected his superiors, but, after the battles he had been through while on the job, he figured he had earned a measure of respect himself, which left him with an attitude of relaxed indifference.

  The meeting room was twelve feet by twelve feet and perfectly square, not overly large nor claustrophobically small. Beautifully realistic landscape portraits on each wall gave the illusion of a room with a view, which helped put people at ease when they had to spend blocks of time in here with the Director.

  A large circular table, of glossy and heavily polished English oak, dominated the room. Reggie had to admit this was an appropriate setting for what they would be discussing, the presence of a round table rather ironic. He loved how odd coincidences seemed to follow these types of cases, as if fate felt the need to send reminders of the importance of the work the Agency did. This job was nothing if not unpredictable.

  Two men sat comfortably in blue office chairs. Both were in their late forties, with military style crew cuts which were peppered with gray, adding to their looks of quiet authority. Both men looked like they commanded respect by their mere presence, but the one on the right with the most piercing and clear blue eyes imaginable radiated such an aura of command that a lesser agent would be intimidated to the point of shaking at the knees. This man was Director Smith.

  Reggie knew Smith was not the Director’s real name, but when you are in charge of the most covert organization in the world, what was one more secret? He was obviously a military man, but what branch the man had served with was long since forgotten. It really did not matter anyway, because whoever Director Smith had been out in the world was immaterial. He was the Director of the Agency now.

  The other man was Deputy Director James. He was relatively new in his position, having been promoted three years ago. Reggie had known James for close to ten years, and considered him to be an honorable and trustworthy man if a somewhat unimaginative one. James’ promotion was a good one and well deserved, and Reggie had no argument with it. The Deputy Director was a better bureaucrat than field agent anyway.

  At the moment, Reggie found himself in the line of fire from Director Smith’s intense stare. The man definitely knew how to control a room.

  “Good morning, Agent Blackburn,” the Director said. “I trust your return trip was uneventful.”

  The Director’s voice had a gravelly quality to it, speaking of one who was a lifelong smoker without sounding harsh or demanding. Reggie thought it had a grandfatherly tone. The Director could intimidate if needed, but with Reggie, he was simply the man in charge,

  “Yeah, everything went fine,” he replied, lifting the Halliburton case and laying it on the table.

  “Is that the map?”

  This question came from the Deputy Director. Reggie could hear a level of concern in the man’s voice.

  “It is not so much a map as it is some kind of list, though some locations are clearly marked. The whole thing is written in a language I don’t recognize. It looks like a bunch of gibberish, but I think it is the genuine article.”

  He emphasized his point by popping the clasps on the airplane aluminum case, and removing the ancient parchment. It was sealed in an airtight clear plastic bag which he placed on the table, and gently slid across to the seated Director.

  Director Smith put his hand out, and stopped the sliding bag without taking his eyes off Reggie.

  “Well, map or not, the Brits have their knickers in a twist over this,” the Director said. He pulled the old parchment from its plastic safe haven.

  Reggie watched as his boss reached into the breast pocket of his neatly pressed ivory dress shirt, and remove a pair of reading glasses. After settling the designer spectacles on his hawkish nose, the Director briefly scanned the document.

  “I don’t recognize the writing either, though it could be some sort of old Gaelic hybrid,” he commented before handing the document over to the Deputy Director, who looked at the map with silent interest.

  “I take it they will probably be sending one of their own to handle the investigation?” Reggie asked.

  “Their agent will be on a plane sometime tonight and will be here tomorrow. I am not sure when. This is to be a joint effort between our two Agencies.” The Director looked at Reggie before adding, “What do you say, Agent Blackburn; you up for this one?”

  “Actually, sir, I had someone else in mind.”

  That got their attention. D
irector Smith was already watching him intently, but now Deputy Director James, who had been preoccupied with the intricacies of the map, joined in with his own inquisitive stare.

  “Oh?” was the only response the Directors could manage which they offered up in stereo.

  “I thought perhaps this might be a good case to break in Agent Sommers.”

  “Really,” Director Smith said questioningly.

  “This is potentially a very important and touchy case,” Deputy Director James added.

  “Begging you pardon sir, and no disrespect intended, but aren’t they all?” Reggie said.

  “Point taken,” Director Smith said, then asked, “What makes you think she is ready?”

  “It’s been three months. She is as ready as she’s going to be. She’s passed all the psychologicals with flying colors. We’ve got to start her in the field some time, and this provides her with the unique opportunity to work with a partner, albeit one from a different Agency. I can stay active on the case too, as a liaison officer. Plus, if I know Sommers, she’s chomping at the bit to get started, and if we don’t throw her a bone soon, she might stop playing nice with others.”

  This last part he said halfway jokingly, but knew it held more truth than not.

  “Yes, I hear she is giving Dr. Waterston a run for his money this morning,” Director Smith said, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Still, do we really want to hand such a sensitive case off to a rookie?” Deputy Director James asked.

  “I think she is ready,” Reggie reiterated.

  The room grew uncomfortably silent as Director Smith pondered the Agency’s options. Reggie knew this was not an easy decision, even though to him it seemed a no-brainer, but he’d meant it when he said Sommers was ready. Heck, with her persistence, she would probably have this whole mess wrapped up by the end of the week.

  The silence became oppressive as the Director continued to drag his decision out. Reggie could almost see the wheels turning in the man’s head. They had not offered up as much opposition as he had anticipated, and he hoped this was a good omen. He shifted his weight from his right leg to his left, and did the only thing he could: continue to wait.

  With a final glance at Deputy Director James, and a quick, oh what the heck, shrug, Director Smith said, “All right, its Sommer’s case, but I want you in the background peeking over her shoulder until this is resolved.”

  Reggie knew a huge grin was spreading across his face, but he did not care. Sommers was going to flip.

  “Don’t worry Sir. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Well, the first thing she will need to do is get the map over to the translator,” Deputy Director James said, sliding the map, resealed in the plastic safety bag, back across the table to Reggie.

  “I will take her there myself this afternoon,” he said slipping the map back into the Halliburton case and snapping it shut. “It will give me the opportunity to get her up to speed.”

  “I am sure Dr. Waterston wouldn’t mind the interruption,” Director Smith said as he got up from the table. He left the room, Deputy Director James close on his heels.

  Reggie laughed knowingly.

  He figured he better find out which floor she was on so he could give her the good news in person, and save Dr. Waterston from being eaten alive.

  —Chapter 3

  A light drizzle caused a mist to rise over Dame Court, and most likely all of Dublin, giving the city the look of what tourists would refer to as old world charm. The sun was setting, and the red light oozed into the rainy mist, causing the Irish capital to be cast in an eerie glow.

  Colin O’Connor pulled the collar of his black pea coat up around his neck to protect his exposed skin. His near-platinum blonde hair and fair complexion made him look like a wraith haunting the streets of Dublin. He picked up his pace, wanting to get to The Stag’s Head before he was completely drenched. The cold evening air matched his demeanor, and he could not even muster a smile as he saw the yellow lights of the pub just ahead.

  The meeting had been originally supposed to be a celebration of sorts, as he’d expected to be bringing confirmation of a successful mission. Instead, it would have to be a strategy session as he and his fellow Patriots reassessed their situation and discussed their options.

  He and his fellow Na Ri` Laoch members had worked hard to achieve their goal. Unfortunately, when their compatriots in New York missed their last check in, Colin knew something had gone awry. His fears were confirmed a short time ago from his contact within Parliament.

  Their friends had not only failed, but been murdered by the American Secret Service. The all-important map had disappeared. It was now his duty to deliver this bad news.

  He, Alan Collins and Owen O’Shea had grown up together in the same neighborhood, hearing the stories of Irish Patriots and their constant struggle against the British. When his own father had been unjustly imprisoned after being wrongly accused of participating in an IRA bombing, then died behind bars before getting a fair trial, Colin and his two friends vowed to do anything within their power to bring about the end of Great Britain.

  At first, bringing the British to their pompous knees had been simply a childhood fantasy, but as they had grown, their vow took shape. They created the Na Ri’ Laoch, “The King’s Warriors”. The group now totaled close to fifty men, all dedicated to the cause.

  Years ago, Colin ran across a rumor of a map said to provide the location of a certain artifact that would allow him to bring about the demise of the British government. He had thrown himself into the research. After pooling their resources, the Na Ri` Laoch obtained the map. It had come at great expense, but in Colin’s mind it was money well spent.

  Even with the group’s best laid plans temporarily disrupted, he felt a warm sensation settle over his shoulders as he walked through the pillared entrance of The Stag’s Head. It was like the feeling of returning home after being away for a long period of time. Warmth washed over him anew as he opened the door, and was welcomed by the comforting sounds of a busy pub.

  The place was packed, mostly by college students due to its proximity to Trinity College. It was kind of out of the way, but that was one reason Colin liked it. Most tourists could not find it, and he loathed tourists, especially Americans with their ridiculous preconceived notions about the Irish. With their stupid ideas that all Irishmen were red heads who loved to sing ‘Danny Boy’ while crying in their beers and gorging themselves on corned beef and cabbage, Americans were second only to the Brits in his hate. Though, with the recent killing of his fellow Na Ri` Loach members, the Americans could easily find themselves number one, at least for the time being.

  He pushed his way through the crowd of students and off work businessmen, pausing long enough to stop at the marble topped bar. The Stag’s Head was famous for its pints of Guinness, but he decided to forego his usual order for the calming effect of good Irish malt whiskey and ordered a snifter of Bushmill’s. After his walk through the cold rain, he needed a way to help get warm.

  When the bartender, an older gentleman rumored to have once been a captain with the IRA, slid the glass across the bar, Colin took a quick sip, letting the golden liquid fire work its magic through his body. He turned and raised his glass in salute to “Natch”, the large stuffed stag’s head which kept watch over the place.

  The crowd thinned as he made his way to the stairs and climbed to the third floor, which provided a level of privacy they would need. He and his partners would have to come up with a way to get their plans back on track, since the Americans had seen fit to derail them.

  Along with the unsavory news of his colleagues’ untimely deaths, his contact had also been able to give him some information on a certain person who might be able to help the Na Ri` Laoch. This particular individual’s help would not come cheaply, but in reality they may not have another choice.

  As he cleared the last step, he spotted his friends right off, sitting at their customary t
able near the back of the room. The Americans considered them to be a terrorist group. They considered themselves to be Patriots, fighting for the betterment of Ireland and her people.

  In his own mind, the best way to improve the lives of his Irish brethren was to wipe out Great Britain and rid the world of its tyranny. He knew this was an unrealistic goal, but he and the Na Ri` Laoch were attempting the next best thing: complete control of the British government, and the subjugation of its citizens. The map was the compass leading them down the path to the means of achieving their lofty yet righteous goal.

  He took another sip of his Bushmill’s before sitting down with his co-conspirators. The potent whiskey helped to strengthen his resolve so he could share the fate of their mission.

  “So what’s the word?” Alan Collins asked as soon as Colin had gotten settled and comfortable.

  “Yeah, have you heard from our cell in the States?” Owen O’Shea followed up.

  “Not exactly.” Colin watched as the looks on his two friends’ faces changed from optimistic hope to deep concern.

  Alan ran his hand through his jet black hair before taking a long pull off his pint of Guinness. Owen sat statue still, staring at him intently.

  They had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get this far. These two men had stood by his side, and believed unconditionally. It nearly crushed his spirit to now have to tell them of the setback the Na Ri` Laoch had suffered.

  “Tell us what happened,” Owen O’Shea said, a definite edge to his voice speaking as to how deeply the disappointment went. It touched Colin to know his friends were so emotionally invested in the cause born out of his own father’s death.

  “They’re dead.” He shot back the rest of his whiskey. It burned all the way down as if to emphasize the gravity of the news he had shared, but it was nothing compared to the inferno blazing deep down in his gut marking his desire for vengeance.

  “How…how could this happen?” Alan finally managed to stammer.