by Shawn Oetzel
Upon hearing this, everything fell into place. She let out a long breath half in frustration and half in relief as she slipped her sidearm back into its holster.
“You’re the representative from the Agency in Great Britain,” she said.
“That I am, Agent Sommers.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ambrosious, but that doesn’t explain all this cloak and dagger crap, and why you felt the need to break into my apartment.”
“I beg your pardon. I am truly sorry if I frightened you in any way. It was not my intention. I do admit I have a bit of flair for the dramatic. I like to test the people I am going to be working a case with, especially those I have never met before. I wanted to see how you would react to the unexpected. I thought a fellow agent would appreciate the gesture.”
“Well, you thought wrong, and I don’t,” she said. “Besides, the last time I checked, I wasn’t in high school anymore and so the need for tests has long since passed. The very fact I am an agent should be proof enough for you that I know how to handle myself. If it isn’t, then maybe you should hop back on your plane and zip back across the pond and find someone else’s home to break into.”
She was caught off guard as he once again smiled at her. This time it seemed genuine, and apologetic. She did not believe he truly meant to insult her, and if she was not mistaken he was somewhat embarrassed by the reaction his behavior had caused.
“I am deeply sorry for my affront, and I offer my humblest apologies.”
“Cool,” she said, not really knowing how else to respond, and then added, “Now that we’re all chummy, let me be honest. I don’t like working with a partner. I think it’s a waste of time, and if I had my way, you would be on the first plane back to England, in time for tea. Oh, and another thing, the next time you feel the need to let yourself into my home uninvited, don’t.”
“It is nice to know where I stand with you, Agent Sommers. I understand your reservations about me, but I promise you, if you let me tag along, I will not be a hindrance or get in the way. As a matter of fact, if you allow me, I will prove to be extremely valuable. I want this case solved as badly as you do. Maybe even more, dare I say.”
She stared at the British agent, still sizing him up. If first impressions counted, then this partnership was going to be trouble. Still, he definitely had a presence. There was something about him. He was different in a way she could not place. His eyes were serious as if they had seen centuries instead of decades. A new chill sent more shivers down her spine.
“I can see I have overstayed my welcome. Thank you for not shooting me, Agent Sommers.”
“No problem, Agent Ambrosious. We’ll chalk it up to American hospitality. I hope you managed to get a hotel because there is no way you are staying here.”
“I figured as much. You will be happy to know I was able to procure lodging for myself. You see, I am an agent as well, and equally capable of taking care of myself.”
She took the jibe in stride. She guessed she had that one coming for insulting his intelligence. Still, it felt good to know she could get under his skin.
“Yeah, I’m jumping for joy,” she said. “Look, since we’re going to be working together, why don’t you meet me here around 8am tomorrow morning? We are going to visit a translator who’s working on the map.”
At her mention of the map, his body stiffened up and looked taut, like he was ready to pounce. She took a cautious step backwards. He quickly caught himself, once again shifting to the British gentleman comfortable in any situation. These sudden attitude changes hinged on the brink of the bizarre.
“Thank you, Agent Sommers, until tomorrow then,” he said politely.
“Tomorrow, when you get here, one thing,” she said. “Make sure you knock first.”
She was surprised when he laughed at her comment. It was a deep, genuine laugh which broke the tension.
“Why don’t I give you my card instead, and you can call me in the morning when you are ready?” he reached to an inside pocket and produced a small business card, which she took without looking at. “This is going to be quite interesting working with you isn’t it Agent Sommers?”
“How did you get in here?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her as he walked to the door.
He paused, and without turning around to look at her, said, “For the time being, I think some secrets are better left untold.”
With that, he left, quietly closing the door behind him. She stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out what his last comment meant. Finally deciding it was merely another attempt at having some fun at her expense, she let the matter drop.
The excitement now over, her exhaustion returned in force. She was surprised by how tired she was. Events had definitely taken an odd turn, and now all she wanted was a cold beer and a hot bath.
Shaking her head to clear the last bit of tension Agent Ambrosious’ unexpected visit had caused, she went to the kitchen.
—Chapter 8
The Ghost followed Steven Jackson for nearly six blocks. The translator moved at a frustratingly slow pace as he meandered his way through the afternoon throng of pedestrians going about their daily business. He was completely unaware the Ghost was on his heels.
With the weather the way it was, there were more people out on the streets than the Ghost would have thought. It worked in his favor, making blending in with the crowd much easier. If he played his cards right, he might not even need to draw on the magic of the bracelet for help.
Most of the people lining the sidewalk did not pay him much attention, as they were too busy trying to stay warm. Many of them had their winter hats pulled down low on their heads. Some had hoods drawn so tight over their faces they looked like the sort of creature you might see in a John Carpenter horror film.
He knew he stuck out with his long black coat, a stark contrast against the pure white of the snow. He tried to act casual, and hoped if anyone did notice him, they would think of him as nothing more than a happy go-lucky tourist visiting the Nation’s Capitol. The determined look on his face might have been a dead giveaway, however, that he was not interested in merely sightseeing.
Jackson continued on his merry way toward his destination, oblivious of the danger following close behind. The Ghost never took his eyes off the metal case gleaming in what little sun was shining through the gray clouds.
It would take some time even for someone with as much experience as Jackson to decipher the map’s strange Gaelic-like language, the Ghost knew. He had seen the map for himself, and it would be no easy chore.
Those fools of the Na Ri` Laoch had sent operatives to the United States without even knowing what the map said. How they were going to locate the sword was beyond him. If it had not been his tip to the Secret Service, those idiots would still be bumbling around New York. But, thanks to the quick trigger fingers of the Secret Service, it was quite literally a dead issue. The three Na Ri` Laoch soldiers were deceased, the map had found its way into the hands of the Agency, and he had been hired to retrieve it; all just as he had planned.
The wind was beginning to pick up in ferocity, bringing with it an increased chill. His feet were getting cold, and he lamented that his expensive Italian Leather shoes would probably be ruined from the wet snow. He hoped the old guy did not live too much farther away.
“Why couldn’t you drive a car like a normal person?” he mumbled under his breath.
The temperature was cold enough he actually wished he had brought a cup of the awful coffee from the diner. The taste was disgusting, but the warmth of the steaming liquid would be a welcome relief. He was definitely going to make Jackson pay for this trudge along the dirty and freezing sidewalks of Washington D.C. Jackson would know the meaning of pain before he died. The thought of torturing the translator actually helped warm him up, brining the feral grin to his face once more.
Jackson crossed and came to a halt in front of an old red brick building.
The Ghost watched as h
is prey looked around, as if some sixth sense finally decided to kick in and warn him about being followed. At one point the translator’s gaze fell directly on him, and for a brief second, he thought he had been made. Then Jackson turned his head to scan the other direction, and the deadly tension building up in the Ghost’s muscles began to subside. When the time was right, he would most definitely act in an extremely deadly manner, but he made a silent promise to himself that it would not be quick.
Steven Jackson entered the building, attempting to quiet the warning bells going off in the back of his skull. He had done plenty of covert work for the Agency, and understood a certain level of a risk went along with the job. He had never felt such a strong ominous sense of impending danger, however.
He glanced at the case clutched tightly in his aged fist. Whatever was out there stalking him was likely tied to the case’s contents. There was no other logical explanation. Whatever information Blackburn wanted him to translate was more dangerous than the agent had let on.
He had not spotted anything out of the ordinary on the street or sidewalk. The local shops and stores all seemed in order as well. But there was someone, or worse, something out there watching him. He could feel it all the way down deep in his elderly bones as sure as he’d felt the cold wind slapping his face and chapping his skin.
With the safety of his loft apartment so close and beckoning him, he took one more quick glance around before he walked straight to the heavy wooden door marked STAIRS in black letters. He rarely used the elevator, figuring at his age a little exercise was more important than a few minutes of convenience. His loft was on the top floor, but seeing as how the building only had four, it was not too terrible of a climb.
As the door to the stairwell closed behind him, he thought he heard the whoosh of cold air being sucked into the building as someone else entered. A chill worked its way up and down his spine. He paused, trying to catch any other sounds, but was met with silence.
He gave thought to going back to the lobby in hopes of proving his mind was only playing a trick on him, but decided peace of mind would only be attained once he was home. He began his ascent with an extra push of adrenaline. It was amazing how fear was such a motivator.
When he had seen the old man pause and look around before going inside, the Ghost picked up his own pace.
His eyes gleamed with intensity as he let himself into the building. The lobby was deserted, and from the thin layer of dust covering everything, it looked like this was the norm. Still, he did not want to take any chances. If one of the other tenants happened along and saw him, it could be problematic. With that in mind, he decided to utilize the gift which earned him his nickname.
The gold and jade bracelet clasped to his left wrist, a seemingly simple little trinket, had changed his life. He owed everything he had to the ornate piece of jewelry. It was his most prized possession, and other than himself, it was the only thing he truly cared about. The gold band with its jade inlay was the most beautiful thing in the world, and he would die before giving it up.
The true value of the bracelet was not the gold or precious gems it contained, though they were one of a kind, but the magic it possessed. The bracelet gave whoever was wearing it the ability to blend in with any surrounding; making the owner virtually invisible and undetectable. This was why he had become so successful of a professional killer, and this was why he was known as the “Ghost”.
He focused his gaze on the greenish piece of jade, which contained the caricature of a jaguar intricately carved into the stone. The image seemed to sear itself into his brain. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on this mental image. Within seconds, a warm sensation washed over his entire body. He felt a slight tingling in his fingers and toes. It was not unpleasant, akin to what happens when a part of the body falls asleep, the same needle type feeling.
When the initial sensation played itself out, he opened his eyes. Everything appeared the same as before, but he knew from experience if anyone would have been watching, he would have seemed to have vanished. He was now camouflaged, and could move about freely, unencumbered from prying eyes.
According to the nameplates on the mail boxes in the lobby, Steven Jackson lived on the fourth floor. The Ghost did not hesitate in moving into the same stairwell Jackson himself had used minutes before. He quickly climbed the stairs, hoping to catch the translator before the old man could enter his apartment.
—Chapter 9
As Jackson mounted the last couple of stairs, and stepped onto the landing, he again had the eerie feeling he was being watched. He turned to give the stairway one last look, but everything appeared normal. He could have sworn a couple of times on his ascent he had heard footsteps yet every time he paused, no one ever appeared.
He knew there was some unknown presence about. He was almost sure of it.
Deciding it would not be a good idea to let his paranoia get the better of him so close to his front door, he pulled out the key to his apartment to be ready to let himself in. He really did not want to be alone in the hall any longer than necessary. The metal case was already starting to get heavy, and if it was as important as he suspected, would become even more of a burden with each passing minute.
He would be glad when his translation of the parchment was complete and he could return it to Agent Blackburn. He was beginning to be sorry for even taking on the job, but his insatiable curiosity had gotten the better of him, as it always seemed to do. He could not resist a good puzzle, and, whatever else this Halliburton case contained, it certainly had presented him with an irresistible quandary.
The climb had left him a little winded, but the excitement of being able to delve into the world of ancient languages and mysteries spurred him on. Once his door was open, he felt a very slight breeze brush against his wrinkled cheek, and froze in his tracks. He thought he caught a whiff of expensive aftershave as if a visitor had brushed past him. He surveyed the interior of his home, wondering what was causing his nerves to be on such high alert. Everything appeared to be exactly how he’d left it when he went to work earlier in the day.
The slamming bang of the door as it shut made him jump in spite of himself.
“Geez, Jackson, get a grip on yourself, old man.”
He put on a pot of coffee. It was probably going to be a long and busy night trying to decipher the parchment, and he would need the extra boost of caffeine to help him see it through. The normal task had a calming effect on him as well, the comfort of routine a cool balm placed on the irritation of his frayed nerves.
Once the coffee was ready, he filled his favorite mug. It was white with the phrase “translators do it better because they can talk dirty in any language” written in large red block letters across it. He took a cautious sip, careful to not burn himself. The warmth of the black liquid was a welcome relief after his stroll through the cold and snow.
His earlier edginess began to waft away, much like the steam drifting out of his coffee mug. He was finally starting to feel relaxed, and was even able to convince himself it had been his overactive imagination getting him so worked up.
The metal case sat shining in the fluorescent overhead light like a beacon, calling out to him to come and solve its wondrous mysteries. He thought briefly of the old Greek tales of the Sirens calling sailors to their deaths, but dismissed it as quickly as it had come, in favor of excitement at the prospect of discovering some ancient secret in Agent Blackburn’s document.
It was time to work his own brand of magic and do what he did best.
His home office was almost a mirror image of his working environment at Capital Translation Services, containing all the resources he needed to successfully pry every ounce of vital information from the Halliburton case’s contents.
He set the case on his desk, and settled himself into his comfortable leather office chair, confident with his ability. The document would be translated in a matter of hours.
As he opened the case, the uncanny sensation of being watc
hed overcame him again, but he chalked it up to nervous energy. The browned and aged document was the center of his universe now, and the sole focus of his attention.
He stared at it for several long moments, trying to get a better feel for the language, which was some sort of Gaelic, but nothing like he had ever seen before. Agent Blackburn seemed sure it was a map, but he was not as certain. Whatever it was, it posed a puzzling question he was going to enjoy unraveling.
He scanned it into his computer, and let the software go to work, looking for similarities of words and sentence structures, comparing all known languages.
As far as he was concerned, this was where the fun began.
The Ghost watched as the old man worked. He did not know how long the process would take, but he did not really care. One way or another, the translator would provide him with the information he required.
This was not the first time he’d had to wait and bide his time before taking out his intended target. He could be an extremely patient man if the situation called for it. On the other hand, he could be an equally explosive and dangerous man if need be.
So, he would wait, all night if necessary.
The end result would be the same. The map’s secrets would be his, and the translator, Steven Jackson, would no longer be among the living.
Six hours, several trials-and-errors and a multitude of failures later, Jackson found the key he was looking for. The document relinquished its cherished contents much like a maiden on her wedding night.
He had been correct in his assumption that the language was a form of Gaelic, but it was far older than he would have ever thought. He would have to describe it as archaic, quite possibly a language that had not been used in close to a thousand years.
“How does this ancient Gaelic tongue end up on a two hundred year old parchment?” he wondered aloud, but that was not a mystery for him to worry about. His job had been to decipher the language, and pass it on. He had fulfilled his end of the bargain. It would be up to Agent Blackburn to fill in the rest of the blanks.