The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  “According to our contact, the Americans’ Homeland Security was somehow tipped off. They sent in the Secret Service to investigate, and when they found our cell, they gunned them down in cold blood.”

  A stunned silence followed his explanation. He could see it in their eyes, the disgust and then the hatred. All of their preparations and careful planning had seemingly been for naught. They’d thought every base had been covered.

  With the Americans paranoid about terrorism in their own country, the Na Ri` Laoch knew it would be a difficult task getting their men into place, but they’d hoped a couple of Irish tourists would go unnoticed. Unfortunately, they had guessed wrong, and their mission was in desperate jeopardy.

  “What about the map?”

  The question from Alan snapped Colin out of his concentration. He took a minute to gather himself before answering. “Thanks to our contact, I have been able to examine copies of the official reports. There was no mention of a map. However, I was able to discover that a Special Agent for the FBI was also at the scene. I thought it was strange the FBI would only have one agent on hand. When our contact tried to get access to a FBI report of the incident, even stranger, he couldn’t find one.”

  “So?” Owen asked. “What does this have to do with the map?”

  “It is our contact’s belief as well as my own that this agent was not FBI at all, but possibly a member of a more top secret security force. I believe this man, Reggie Blackburn, has the map.”

  “Well, if it is some secret security force, that will definitely complicate matters,” Alan said in frustration.

  Owen nodded his head. “This has the potential to be a disaster for us. It’s turning into a nightmare which could blow up in our faces.”

  “Maybe not,” Alan said. “Just because the Americans may have the map, security force or not, it doesn’t mean they know the full value of it. You know how overconfident those fools are. I’m sure the map is locked up in some evidence locker. All we need to do is retrieve it.”

  “Are you suggesting we somehow breach a top security agency?” Owen asked, with a hint of sarcasm mixed in his tone.

  “Not the Na Ri` Laoch, but there are certain individuals who specialize in these sort of operations. We could try someone of that nature,” Alan said.

  Colin, who had remained silent during the brief exchange, smiled. This would make broaching the subject of hiring the mercenary a little smoother. He hated having to rely on the Brits for anything, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and as far as he was concerned, the Na Ri` Laoch were desperate. Besides, the contact had never steered him wrong. In fact, it was the contact who had led then to the map in the first place.

  “The sword is of the utmost importance,” Owen said. “Without the map, we have no way of finding it. I think we should do whatever it takes to get it back from the Americans.”

  “If we don’t want to bring an outsider in, we could always train a new cell, but that will take time,” Alan said.

  “We don’t have that kind of time, and frankly I don’t think any of our men would even be capable of a mission of such a sensitive nature,” Colin said. “I think we need a professional. We need to get the map back before the Americans figure out the real importance of it and piece together what we are doing. The map needs to be recovered and the sword must be found and brought to us at all costs, and I think I might have someone who can do both.”

  Alan finished off his Guinness, and motioned a nearby waitress for a new pint before asking, “What’s your plan?”

  “I know of a certain individual who provides services of the nature we require,” Colin said. “If, and this is a big if, we are able to find this person, we can not only hire him to get the map, but also locate the sword and bring it home to Ireland. He will not come cheap though.”

  “Price is not an option,” Owen said. “Who is it?”

  Colin stared intently into each of the eyes of his friends to measure their resolve. When he was satisfied that both were committed to taking this extremely dangerous and costly next step, he leaned over the table, and motioned for the others to follow his lead. Then, in a hushed whisper, he uttered the last name his fellow Patriots and Na Ri` Laoch leaders expected to hear.

  “The Ghost.”

  —Chapter 4

  The screen flashed a bright, nearly blinding white before being replaced by yet another crime scene style photo. This one was different from the previous few, in that it was not in color.

  It showed several men who had obviously been gunned down execution style. The victims were dressed in ’20s or ’30s style suits, and it did not take Amy Sommers long to realize this was an old gangland murder. The image was vaguely familiar, and after looking for a few seconds at the bodies shown on screen, she recognized it as a police photo from the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in Chicago.

  As a former homicide detective, she had seen far worse. From drive-by shootings to decomposing homeless, along with overdosed prostitutes and domestic battery incidents so severe the victims were unrecognizable, it never ceased to amaze her what one person was capable of doing to another. Murders, such as the ones depicted in the photo, had been part of her daily routine for several years. She had grown accustomed to the brutality humankind had to offer. Unfortunately, this was an attitude that simply went with the job.

  Why the Agency felt the need to bombard her with these often graphic images was beyond her comprehension. They called it psychological testing, but she was starting to wonder if they were really trying to see if she would crack under the pressure. The crime scene photos did not bother her per se, but the sheer boredom might drive her right over the proverbial edge.

  She did her best to sit still and at least pretend she was paying attention, though she felt her already beat up nerves begin to fray. Whatever the point Dr. Waterston was trying to make with this round of testing had long since slipped her mind.

  She chanced a look at the psychiatrist as he sat stoically at the head of the table, his ever present laptop propped open in front of him. He had a yellow legal pad next to the computer, and every now and then would scribble some note onto it. She would have given anything to get a peek at those notes. What sort of fascinating tidbits and pieces of information was he getting about her by watching her reactions?

  She caught the subtle hint of movement as Waterston pushed an unseen button on his computer. Knowing what this meant, she shifted her gaze back to the screen. A new image popped up, showing what looked like three uniformed soldiers of Middle Eastern descent laying facedown in pools of their own blood. The blood shone a garish red, and she felt her last nerve finally snap.

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” she exclaimed in exasperation, leaning over and smacking her forehead onto the finely polished mahogany conference table.

  “Is there a problem, Agent Sommers?” Waterston asked in his monotone voice.

  She did not immediately answer. Instead, she kept her head on the table and shook it back and forth. Her usually tight grip on her anger started to lessen. If the good doctor did not watch his step and tread softly, he might get a first hand experience of what it was like to see her explode.

  Waterston was obviously not as perceptive as he thought, because instead of picking up on the warning signs of her impending outburst, he pushed forward with another of his asinine comments.

  “You know, Agent Sommers, these tests work so much better if you pay attention and actually look at the screen.”

  “Does it?” she asked letting her pent up ire of the last few months slip free. “Because I am so tired of paying attention to your stupid pictures, I might actually throw up. I have no idea what you’re getting out of watching me look at those pictures. I’m a cop, damn it! I should be out there catching weirdos and locking them up, not sitting here watching your version of America’s Grossest Videos!”

  “The Agency needs to know if you can handle the stresses of the job. These tests will help to show that.”

/>   “Well, if you are worried on whether or not I am going to flip out, I can tell you with complete honesty that if you put one more crime scene photo on that wall depicting some poor bastard’s untimely demise, you are going to see what a psychotic episode is like up close and personal. So help me God, if you push a button on your computer, I am going to feed it to you.”

  The stunned and shocked look on the doctor’s face was priceless. If this was the end of her budding career with the Agency, so be it. She would take the mental image of the prim and proper Dr. Waterston with his mouth hanging wide open with her for the rest of her days. Rendering him speechless was almost worth what would surely result in her immediate termination.

  At that moment, the door of the conference opened, and Reggie Blackburn came in, out of breath and with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. “Oh, Sommers, man have I missed you,” Agent Blackburn said, in between chuckles.

  “Reggie?” Amy asked, caught completely off guard.

  “I love it when that temper of yours gets the best of you. I wish the doctor would push the button, because I would pay top dollar to see you force feed it to him.”

  The frustration she had felt moments before began to drift away in the presence of her friend. Her anger was quickly replaced by feelings of relief, and then joy. “Is there something I can help you with, Agent Blackburn?” Waterston asked, breaking the spell.

  “Actually, Doctor, you can,” Agent Blackburn answered. “You can start by taking your View-Master from Hell there, and giving Agent Sommers and myself a little privacy.”

  Amy watched, confused over the sudden turn of events, as Dr. Waterston closed his laptop, causing the images of the dead soldiers to vanish. He picked up his notepad along with the laptop and exited the conference room.

  “I didn’t think he would ever leave,” Agent Blackburn said sarcastically as he settled his large frame into one of the empty chairs.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Reggie, I’m grateful for the reprieve from Dr. Kevorkian and his little computer of horrors, but what is this all about?”

  “I just thought you could use a break since you’ve obviously been working so hard. And, after listening to your mini meltdown while I was out in the hall, I would say I was correct.”

  He sat like he did not have a care in the world, but she could tell by the smirk working at the corners of his mouth and the mischievous glint shining in his eyes that he was holding something back. He was definitely up to something, and knowing him like she did, he would not make it easy for her to find out.

  “All right Blackburn, I know that look. Fess up.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and did her best to stare him down. To his credit, he was able to withstand her best LAPD interrogation room glare, which had reduced more than one grown man to tears, and had resulted in numerous confessions. Unfortunately, Agent Blackburn was made of sterner stuff. Her impatience finally got the better of her.

  “That’s it, Blackburn. Either tell me what’s going on or I am going to knock that smug look off your face with a sharp crack from my backhand,” she jokingly threatened.

  “You know, I’d almost like that, Sommers.”

  “That’s the only thing holding me back,” she said, winking at him to emphasize her point.

  He snorted out a chuckle in appreciation of her wit, then he surprised her anew with a quick switch of his demeanor to a more serious mood.

  “A little over a week ago, the Agency got a tip from friends in Great Britain that an Irish terrorist organization calling themselves Na Ri` Laoch had slipped a cell into the U.S.”

  “Na Ri` Laoch?” she interrupted confused.

  “Yeah, it roughly translates to The King’s Warriors,” Agent Blackburn said. “Normally, this wouldn’t be a case for us to take an interest in, but according to the information Britain provided, this Irish terrorist group had in their possession a certain map which may contain the location of a certain artifact.”

  “I take it this is not your ordinary run of the mill artifact, but something of an extraordinary nature,” she said.

  “You would be correct in your assumption. Anyway, I was asked to do some checking, and sure enough, I discovered the Na Ri` Laoch had entered the country in New York of all places. These guys were not on any terrorist watch lists as they are pretty small time, so there was no reason to think they were anything other than tourists. The Agency contacted Homeland Security, who in turn brought in the Secret Service. Under the guise of being with the FBI, I was allowed to join in the attempted apprehension of the terrorists. I say attempted because the Secret Service agent in charge thought he was Wyatt Earp and blasted the Na Ri` Laoch to pieces before I could talk to them. My real objective was to get my hands the map.”

  “I am guessing you were successful in your endeavor or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Again, you are right on the money.” Agent Blackburn set a Halliburton case on the table.

  “So what does this have to do with me?” she asked, desperately trying not to get her hopes up.

  “I thought you might ask that. It seems the British are more than a little concerned the artifact this map may or may not lead to might fall into the wrong hands. They have asked the Agency to find the artifact, if possible, and return it.”

  She waited for him to finish, holding her breath in anticipation, and gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “After some deliberation,” Agent Blackburn continued, “It has been decided that you, Agent Sommers, will handle this case.”

  “Yes!” She jumped to her feet so fast she knocked her chair over. “I swear, Blackburn, if this is one of your lame ideas for a joke, you’re a dead man.”

  This brought a fresh round of laughter from the big man.

  “Sommers, you do not disappoint. This is no trick. The case is yours.”

  To prove his point, Agent Blackburn slid the metal case across the table where it came to rest right in front of her. She wanted to reach down, snatch it up, and run out before the Agency had a chance to somehow change their collective mind. It took every ounce of self-restraint she could muster to stop herself from doing just that.

  “Now, before you get too excited, I must warn you that the British don’t completely trust us to handle this job. They are going to send their own agent to be a part of the investigation. You will be working closely with their representative.”

  This bit of new information did let the air out of her sails a little. She had never been one who liked working with a partner. She was a loner when it came to investigative work, and she was at her best when she was unencumbered and not shackled to someone who would only slow her down anyway. Still, if it meant she would finally be working an active case, she would gladly bite the bullet, and do her best to play nice.

  “If I have to, then I have to,” she said, not the least discouraged. “When can I expect this lovely new partner?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. With as much importance the Brits are putting on this, it wouldn’t surprise me any if someone wasn’t already on their way.”

  “I’m not gonna sit around and wait for some guy to finish eating his fish and chips. The sooner I can get started the better. In any investigation, every second counts. You know that, Reg.”

  “I figured you’d say as much. So, if you’ve got nothing better to do, let’s get going.”

  “You mean right now?” she asked, surprised.

  “Sure thing; grab the Halliburton, Agent Sommers, and let’s get moving.”

  She liked the way he emphasized the word “Agent.” This was Blackburn’s way of saying she was ready; that she finally had made it and he was proud of her. She knew he had stuck his neck out for her, and she had no intention of letting him down.

  She reached down and grabbed the Halliburton case. The handle felt cool against her palm. The case was heavier than she anticipated, and when she pulled it off the table, the unexpected weight caused a painful tug on her sho
ulder and arm.

  “Maybe you need to hit the gym a little more, instead of the take-out food you’re so fond of,” Agent Blackburn teased.

  “Screw you, Blackburn,” she replied with friendly sarcasm. “If I hadn’t been holed up in here with Dr. Boredom the last three months, you wouldn’t be talking. Besides, with that spare tire you call a gut? I don’t think you should be commenting on how out of shape anyone is.”

  “Yeah, Sommers, I definitely missed you.”.

  They shared a laugh before heading out of the large conference room, and making their way down the hall.

  “So what’s my first step?” she asked.

  “The map is written in some kind of ancient Gaelic, so the first thing we need to do is get it translated. You and I are going to pay a visit to a language specialist who works for the Agency. After that, you will be on your own, more or less.”

  By this time, they were at the elevator waiting for the doors to glide open allowing them entrance.

  “Do you know why this map is so important to the British, other than it might lead to an artifact?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Agent Blackburn sounded somewhat cryptic.

  “It has to do with whatever it leads to, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. The elevator doors opened, and they both stepped into the small confines without any hesitation.

  “What does it lead to, Reggie?” she asked, her voice taking on a serious tone.

  “If all the reports are correct, and the information given to us by the British Agency is accurate, then the map you are carrying in that Halliburton case leads to the hidden resting place of none other than King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,” Agent Blackburn answered as the doors to the elevator slid shut.

  —Chapter 5

  Loud techno music thumped out its rhythmic beat as young men and women writhed and intertwined with each other on the mirrored dance floor of Club Shadow. They moved seemingly unconscious of their surroundings, with blank expressions on their faces like they were in a trance or under a spell. Better yet, they looked like puppets, or members of some ridiculous cult worshipping the even more ridiculous music.