The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  That was the way he liked to think of them; as mindless wretches he could control at his whim.

  He watched them through the tinted glass windows of the office, which overlooked the entire club. He took a long sip from his glass containing the most pleasurable of concoctions: Jack Daniels and Coke-Cola. It was his favorite drink. In fact, anymore, it was all he cared to drink. It fueled the fire burning deep in his gut, the same fire that had helped make him the most successful, highest paid, and most sought after assassin in the world.

  He had many names and identities he used worldwide, but to his prospective customers he was simply known as the Ghost. This simple name, when uttered, could bring spine-tingling fear to government officials and high ranking crime syndicate bosses all around the world. He had earned the nickname for his uncanny ability to slip into the most secure of places, kill his intended mark, and then slip out again completely undetected.

  He ventured a glance at the gold and jade bracelet clasped to his right wrist, the same bracelet which had quite literally changed his life. A knowing smile worked its way across his handsome face and an evil glint seemed to sparkle in eyes so brown they could easily be mistaken for black.

  He stared at the dancing fools a few minutes more before turning and walking to the large, antique, oak desk which dominated most of his office with its presence. Once there, he flipped an unseen switch, and heavy wooden panels came sliding out of the walls, covering the windows and muffling the loud music to a more tolerable level. The pounding of the music was causing an equal pounding inside his skull.

  The noise was a small annoyance, however. This nightclub, his club, was his base of operations. It provided him with the cover he needed to help maintain his identity and to mask his true business. Though he had not been particularly active in recent months, he was still on just about every security force’s Most Wanted list.

  That is what happens when you have killed such high profile targets, he thought, bringing another evil grin of glee to his otherwise serene face.

  Two years of semi-retirement left him feeling that he had been inactive far too long. He’d nearly been caught, and decided discretion was the better part of valor. Now, though, he’d grown increasingly bored.

  He had made an obscene amount of money in a relatively short period of time. It was amazing what individuals would pay to have him off some rival. He had more money than he could ever hope to spend in his life time, though since his near capture he’d had all kinds of fun trying.

  Like many other times in his charmed life, fate had decided to intervene.

  A while ago, while enjoying the company of several naïve college girls at a slightly out of the way Irish pub, he had met those idiots calling themselves Na Ri` Laoch. Over an evening of shared drunkenness, he had learned their entire pathetic story, and had decided right there on the spot that he could have some fun exploiting their poor excuse for a political terrorist group.

  Little did those morons know, but he was actually their supposed high ranking contact in the British Government. They never even bothered to check his story, not that it would have mattered. He covered his tracks well enough. He manipulated them just as easily as he did the patrons who piled into his club every night.

  The Na Ri` Laoch provided him the in he needed to become active again. After he had put the bug in their ears about the sword, it became increasingly easier to steer them to the paths he wanted them to choose. He was the one who actually tipped off the British government who then, true to form, contacted the Agency in the States. His plan moved along so smoothly, it could not have been scripted any better.

  Once the Agency got their hands on the map, it was easy to convince the Na Ri Laoch’s fool of a leader that they needed to bring in a professional to get the map and retrieve the sword for them. He knew the idiotic brain trust of the Na Ri` Laoch were probably discussing whether or not they should hire someone as dangerous as “the Ghost.”

  He chuckled to himself, thinking about those three jackasses having their idea of a team meeting. The whole situation was comical.

  He knew they would choose to acquire his services. They really did not have any other choice, at least none he left them. He made sure to dangle the carrot of success in front of their faces, driving them into a near frenzy thinking about what they could accomplish if they managed to get their hands on the sword. It was only a matter of time before he was contacted and given the go ahead to proceed. He would charge them an enormous sum for his services, but truth be told, this had very little to do with money.

  He had grown bored and stagnant this past year. More than that however, it was time he eliminated the only loose end he had allowed to go unchecked. This was his opportunity to settle a score with Agent Reggie Blackburn.

  Oh, he would get the map and find the sword. If he was feeling generous, he might even give it to those fools in Ireland, though he would probably take them out as well and keep the mysterious blade for himself. But that was secondary. What he really wanted to do was stare into Blackburn’s eyes, and watch with measured intensity as the life drained out of them.

  Many nights, he had lain awake plotting out Agent Blackburn’s painful demise. He had visualized hundreds if not thousands of scenarios in which Blackburn suffered an excruciating death; each more horrible than the last. The fat agent was the only person he truly hated. In his business there was no such thing as freebies, but in Blackburn’s case he would make an exception. Getting to Blackburn would be collateral damage on his way to the sword. Thanks to the Na Ri` Laoch and their lofty dreams, he would have his chance to settle a score once for all.

  A loud knock at the office drew him out of his murderous fantasies.

  “Enter,” he said, loud enough so whoever was standing on the other side of the door could hear him over the pulsating music.

  The door slowly opened. His beautiful and young assistant stood sheepishly in the entrance. She was a gorgeous little thing with an exemplary body he had spent several enjoyable occasions exploring. That body was the sole reason he had hired her to manage his club. With his charm she had been so easy to seduce, and as a result he knew she was now completely in love with him; a situation he exploited to his advantage whenever he so desired.

  When the young woman made no move to enter the office, he waved her in with annoyance. He hated it when she tried to play coy. He was a busy man and had no time or patience for her little girl games.

  “I said enter, Gretchen.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clauson,” the pretty club manager said, lowering her head in submission.

  Clauson was the name he had chosen for his identity here in London. James Clauson was a successful business man with many influential friends in high places. He had similar personas in various high profile cities throughout the world.

  He stared at her like a hungry wolf ready to take down its unsuspecting prey. Depending on how things went this evening, he might have to sample a taste of her delicacy once again. By the mischievous look in her eyes, he could tell she was of a like mind.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “The bartender would like permission to open up a new case of Cristal.”

  He heard a subtle hint of luridness in her soft-spoken voice, inviting him to come out and play. He got up from his plush leather office chair, planning to grab her and take her right here and now. He knew she would not resist, and would give herself up totally to his carnal whims.

  Before he could get around the desk to satisfy his lust, the cell phone sitting on the same desk began vibrating. He paused in mid-stride, his sexual desires forgotten. Normally he would ignore an intrusion like this. But that particular cell phone was meant for only one caller, the Na Ri` Laoch. They must have come to a decision, and though this was a most inopportune time, this was a call he wanted to take.

  “Excuse me, my dear, but I need to answer this,” he said, reaching for the vibrating phone. He could see the disappointment in her eyes. He would take care of that so
on enough. “You may tell the bartenders they have my permission. And, please check back in with me in about twenty minutes.”

  The disappointment in his manager’s eyes turned to anticipation. This caused his own excitement to grow. He waited until she left the room; watching the sway of her hips before answering the phone.

  “I take it you have come to a decision,” he said into the receiver.

  An Irish-accented voice said, “We were given this number through a mutual contact.”

  “I am well aware of the arrangement.”

  “So you know what we would like you to do.” This was a statement of fact and not a question.

  “Standard retrieval of a certain old world artifact. My regular fee for a job like this is 5 million dollars. I will get you the account number where the money will be deposited. This will be the last time we communicate. I will contact you when I have completed the job. If complications should occur, it’s my decision on whether to abort or not. Whatever heat may come your way is up to you to handle. Either way, I keep the money. These are my terms and they are nonnegotiable. I need to know your decision right now.”

  “We’re in,” the Na Ri` Laoch leader answered without hesitation.

  “Good. I will forward the bank account information shortly, and begin as soon as the money is transferred.”

  He hung up and smiled with satisfaction. This had been almost too easy. Anyone else might have thought it was some kind of elaborate set up, but he knew this was legit. The Na Ri` Laoch were too stupid to be Interpol or any other international police force. They were simply foolish idealists willing to do whatever it took for their cause, which only made them easier pickings for him. As the puppet master pulling all the strings, he was in complete control of this operation.

  He went to the laptop sitting on his desk and forwarded the information the Na Ri` Laoch would need to make the money transfer. When that task was finished, he removed a Cuban cigar from the hand polished humidor he also kept on his desk. After striking a match and lighting the long, dark cigar, he took in a long puff, filling his mouth with the rich flavor. The evening continued to get better and better.

  With the music still thumping away he felt good enough to dance himself. He was finally going to be able to take steps towards getting his sweet revenge against the Agency, and especially Agent Reggie Blackburn. This was cause for a celebration. He decided to enjoy one of those bottles of Cristal his bartenders were opening. In fact, sipping some Cristal out of Gretchen’s belly button would hit the spot.

  As if on cue, the door to his office opened and the leggy club manager stepped in.

  “Are you ready for me now Mr. Clauson?” she asked teasingly.

  A chime from his laptop caught his attention. He looked over, and noticed the $5 million had been successfully transferred to his account.

  “I am now, my lovely,” he said, his excitement building. “I’m going to call down and get us something to drink. I have a rather specific thirst this fine evening.”

  —Chapter 6

  The drive over to see the Agency’s official translator was uneventful, though with the couple of inches of snow which had fallen earlier in the day, it seemed traffic was moving at a snail’s pace.

  Amy was so anxious to get started that the slow and cautious drivers in the other vehicles ahead of them caused her frustration to heat up. She was always of the attitude that time was of the essence no matter the case, and having to wait to begin her investigation due to something as trivial as winter weather induced driving was a hard pill for her to swallow.

  The initial shock of Blackburn telling her she had been green-lighted for her own case had started to wane, but knowing she was going to be looking for the fabled sword Excalibur was still blowing her mind. When Blackburn dropped that particular bombshell on her, she had nearly tripped and fallen on her face. She was lucky enough to have caught herself and righted her balance. If she had given in to gravity and taken a spill, she would have never heard the end of it; Blackburn would have teased her mercilessly.

  She was still having a hard time putting her mind around the fact that the Halliburton case sitting on the backseat of Blackburn’s blue sedan contained a document which might lead to King Arthur’s sword.

  Excalibur! Who would have ever thought the possibility of its actual existence was even a viable option?

  She always considered herself to be a rather open minded person, and she’d learned a few months back when she had helped track down an Elven serial killer that this world held way more secrets than she could have ever imagined, but still, Excalibur?

  She ventured a look into the backseat to reassure herself the whole thing was real, and not some elaborate daydream. She had a moment of pure terror at the horrifying thought that she was still at the Agency, lulled to sleep by Dr. Waterston and his streaming video of death, and this was some boredom-induced hallucination. The momentary panic passed quickly at the sight of the silver aluminum case gleaming in the afternoon sunlight was pouring through the driver’s side rear window. It put her mind at ease.

  She and Reggie had barely spoken once they had gotten into the car and on their way. She had a million questions to ask concerning the investigation, but decided to wait until after they met with the translator in hopes of having some of her queries answered then. Besides, from what little Blackburn had told her, it was apparent he really did not have much information to share with her on the subject anyways.

  The traffic finally began to pick up, and it was not long before Reggie parked the car in front of an unimposing gray stone building. The sign painted on the large front picture window named the facility as Capital Translation Services. Directly under the business name was a hand drawn facsimile of the iconic Capitol Building. The whole set up was unimpressive on first glance, but Amy had quickly learned from her short time with the Agency things were often much more than they appeared to be. If this translator they were going to meet with worked for the Agency, she was sure there would be more to him than met the eye as well.

  Reggie had explained to her the Agency kept certain individuals with specific talents on the payroll. Steven Jackson was such a person. He had a knack, or better yet, a talent for deciphering languages, even those long forgotten by time. If the map was written in a form of ancient Gaelic or some hybrid of the language, it was their hope this Mr. Jackson could translate the descriptions which could point to Excalibur’s hidden resting spot. She just hoped the guy was as good as his reputation.

  When she pushed the door to the translator business open, it hit a bell hanging over the entrance way, causing it to jingle. She supposed this effect was to remind patrons who entered of a simpler time, and add a quaint charm to the atmosphere of the place. The effect was lost on her; she found it more of an annoyance. She rolled her eyes and spared a look over at Blackburn, who only shrugged his shoulders in indifference.

  A phone rang loudly as they entered, mixing with the tinkling of the bell and only adding to her annoyance. After three rings the phone was answered by a heavyset forty-something woman.

  “Capital Translation Services, how may I direct your call?” Amy heard the receptionist ask.

  The lobby, if you could even call it that, was basically a small room with a door off to the right, which she guessed led to offices where the different translators worked their magic, so to speak.

  The receptionist and several file cabinets were situated behind a half wall counter which ran the length of the lobby. The floor was covered in a dingy and worn light brown carpet. Faux wood paneling covered the walls. The whole place gave Amy the impression this was the office time forgot. The musty smell filling her nostrils only added to this feeling.

  There were no chairs, so she and Reggie stood waiting for the receptionist to finish her phone conversation.

  Amy glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was closing in on 1pm. The day was starting to slip away from her, and she had yet to really accomplish anything important conce
rning this investigation. If things did not pick up soon, she might fall asleep standing up. She wanted to hit the ground running with this case so she could prove her worth to the Agency, but so far she had been stuck playing the waiting game.

  “I have you down for Thursday the 11th at 2pm. Go ahead and bring all your materials at that time…Sure thing, Mr. Williams, and thank you for thinking of us.” Once the phone was hung up back on its receiver, the middle aged secretary put on her best welcoming smile of greeting, and turned her attention to Amy and Reggie.

  “May I help you?”

  Finally, Amy thought, as Reggie stepped up to the counter.

  “I’m Agent Blackburn and this is Agent Sommers. We have an appointment with Mr. Jackson.”

  “Let me call back and see if he is ready for you.” When she again hung up the phone, the receptionist smiled and said, “Mr. Jackson will be right up to take you back.”

  “Thank you,” Amy and Reggie said at the exact same time, then looked at each other with goofy smiles upon hearing their stereo reply. Amy was tempted to yell out “jinx,” but thought the humor would be lost on Blackburn.

  After roughly two minutes passed, the door to their right opened, and out stepped a short elderly man. At first glance, Amy thought she was looking at the real life version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons animated television series.

  The senior translator was dressed in khaki pants, a brown button down shirt, and a brown tweed jacket. It seemed to her that brown and its many shades was the official color scheme at Capital Translation Services.

  She watched as the dour expression on the translator’s face morphed into a friendly grin when he caught sight of Agent Blackburn. That put her at ease. If Blackburn trusted this man, then she had absolutely no objections at all of using his services or his involvement in this investigation.

  “Agent Blackburn, it’s good to see you again.”