The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  An Agency aide welcomed them aboard, took their bags, and led them to the back of the plane where a living area was set up. Though smaller, the Piaggio was nicer and definitely cleaner than Amy’s own apartment.

  The aide was a young man in a tailored navy blue suit, who might have looked like an anchorman for the evening news if he’d been a little older. As it was, he had the look of fussy perfection.

  When he spoke, his voice was pleasant, and his spiel was well rehearsed.

  “We will be taking off soon, so I do ask that you take a seat and buckle in. Once we are in the air, feel free to move around. If you get hungry or thirsty, there is a well stocked refrigerator across from the baggage storage. If you need anything else while we are in transit, push the call button on the wall next to the table, and I will be happy to assist. By the time we land, I will have arranged transportation and lodging for you. Do you have any questions at this time?”

  “Nope, I think you got it covered,” she said, impressed with his efficiency.

  With a respectful tilt of his head, the aide did an about face, and walked to the front of the plane, disappearing from their view.

  “Ten to one says that guy was an Eagle Scout,” she said.

  “I think that would be a fool’s wager,” Ambrosius said dryly.

  There was a crackle of electricity from a speaker located somewhere in the ceiling before the recognizable voice of the aide announced, “We will be taking off in five minutes. If you have not done so already, please take a seat and strap yourselves in now. Thank you.”

  “At least he’s polite,” she said, sitting in the closest chair and fastening the seat buckle tightly around her waist. Ambrosius nodded indifferently as he chose the chair directly across from her and buckled his own safety harness.

  With a low hum, the Piaggio’s twin engines began to warm up. Slowly, the plane began moving and the hum turned into a high pitched whine as the pilot throttled the engines. They picked up speed until the landscape outside the windows became a colorful blur. With a slight lurch, the landing gear left the runway, and Amy’s stomach bottomed out like it always did when she drove over a hill too fast, and she knew they were airborne. To confirm this, she peeked out the window again, and watched as the private hangar got smaller and smaller.

  They reached the desired altitude. The pilot leveled the plane out, and the ride became so smooth she could barely tell they were moving at all. She had one last flash of disappointment concerning Reggie’s reaction before the intercom crackled again.

  “You may now feel free to roam about. We will be landing in Boston in roughly an hour and a half’s time. Enjoy your flight.”

  She did not move right away, but Ambrosius quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up.

  “I am going to raid that well stocked refrigerator. Care to join me, Agent Sommers?”

  “No thanks,” she said. “I think I’m going to get some rest. I get the feeling we may not have another chance once we hit Boston running. Do me a favor, though, and wake me before we land.”

  “Certainly,” Ambrosius said.

  She unbuckled her own safety restraint, and leaned into her chair, surprised by how comfortable it was. She rested her head against the cushion and closed her eyes. This day had left her exhausted both emotionally and physically. She hoped things would get better once they touched down in Boston. Within seconds after closing her eyes, she was fast asleep.

  —Chapter 13

  She felt as if her eyes had only been closed for a few seconds when the distant sound of someone calling her name intruded into her slumber. In a half sleep and half awake state, she could not be sure if it was real or part of a dream. The force of someone physically pushing her shoulder, however, brought her fully back to consciousness.

  She opened her eyes and the blurry image of Agent Ambrosius materialized. It took a moment to remember where she was, but the soft hum of the Piaggio’s twin engines brought it flooding back to her.

  “I take it we are almost there,” she said, between yawns.

  “The pilot just announced we would be starting the final approach shortly, and asked that we get buckled in,” Ambrosius said as he took the seat directly across from her.

  She glanced out the window and noticed the light was starting to fade. Ironically, this would match her mood, as it too was growing steadily darker.

  She wanted to stand up and stretch out her tight muscles. Dozing off in the plane’s chair had left her feeling stiff and sore. But, since they were so close to landing, she re-buckled her safety belt. She could deal with the uncomfortable feeling for a little while longer.

  “You know, I could really use a drink,” she said. “What do you say, when we touch down, you and I go find a bar or maybe even a restaurant?”

  “I think you just read my mind, Agent Sommers.”

  She smiled, about to elaborate on exactly what she was going to order and how much she was going to drink when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

  “We have the airport in sight, and will be landing in a few minutes. If you have not done so already, please buckle yourselves in. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed your flight.”

  She could tell by the barely perceptible butterflies beginning to flutter away in her stomach that they were starting their descent. Within a few minutes they would be back on the ground. It could not come fast enough as far as she was concerned. She found herself gripping the armrests of her chair so tightly her hands began to cramp. At the sight of Ambrosius sitting calmly like he did not have a care in the world, even giving her a little smile when he noticed she was looking his way, made her let go of the armrests and fold her arms across her chest, hoping she was giving a similar appearance of unflappable nonchalance.

  The Piaggio rocked a few more times and rolled to a stop. The whine of the twin engines lessened as the pilot switched them off. She let out a long slow breath. It was not that she was afraid of flying, but she always felt better once she was back on solid ground like God intended.

  Their personal flight attendant returned, as fresh and fashionable as ever.

  Is it some male gender trait? she wondered. Let them look great, while I feel like something the cat just hocked up?

  “I hope your flight was satisfactory,” the attendant said.

  “Oh, it was just peachy,” Sommers said, finally able to stretch out some of the kinks in her tired muscles. The attendant either did not hear her or he simply chose to ignore her sarcasm all together.

  “Once you retrieve your baggage, I would ask that you meet me outside. An Agency car has been prepared for us. I will take you to your hotel so you can get checked in. I will leave the car with you, and take a cab back here. Once you have completed your business here in Boston, contact the Agency and I will make the necessary preparations for your return trip. Do you have any questions for me?”

  When they didn’t, the perfectly coiffed attendant turned crisply on his heel, and went to open the doors for them

  “Helpful little toady isn’t he?” she said.

  “Quite.” Ambrosius got their bags from the baggage compartment. “Now, how about we go see about that drink.”

  “You know, Ambrosius,” she said taking the offered bags and slinging them over her right shoulder. “I am really beginning to like the way you think.”

  They made their way to the front of the little plane; where a chill wind blew in through the open doors. Sommers stood in the doorway at the top of the steps with her head held high, letting the cold air wash over her face and clear some of the leftover fuzziness from her abbreviated nap out of her mind. She felt immediately better despite the daunting task ahead.

  The private airport looked identical to the one they had departed from back in Washington D.C. For all she knew, they had flown in a circle and landed in the same place. It reminded her of the elevator rides of varying lengths back at the Agency.

  “Agent Sommers, if you are ready?”

  She looked over at the
flight attendant, now turned chauffeur, by another familiar Agency black sedan. Even with the brisk breeze blowing, the man’s hair was still perfect, without a strand out of place. She would have bet a tropical storm would not have fazed the guy’s ‘do.

  How much gel does he have to use to achieve that level of hair perfection? she wondered, knowing only that it had to be an enormous amount.

  Ambrosius had already seated himself in the rear of the sedan, waiting for her. She handed the perfect-haired assistant her bags, and got in. It was time to take this traveling freak show on the road.

  She leaned back into the backseat and tried to relax. All she wanted to do was get checked in, grab something to eat, and get some serious rest. Neither the driver nor Ambrosius had much to say, but Sommers did not mind. Right now, she gladly welcomed the silence.

  She hadn’t thought to grab a pair of gloves, as a result, her hands were freezing. She slipped them into the pockets of her overcoat. It was then she felt paper and remembered the note Reggie had given her.

  She removed the note from her pocket. It was a small piece of paper torn from the notebook she had often seen Reggie use, folded in half, hiding whatever was written upon it. She stared at the paper for several long moments, thinking about how they had parted ways.

  Seeing his handwriting only reinforced that. For such a large and burly man, he had near perfect penmanship. It was such an odd contrast to his often gruff personality. The note read: Professor Jack Foshay, English Literature Department, Boston University. Underneath this was a phone number, presumably to his office.

  It was closing in on 6pm and she figured the Professor would probably already be gone for the evening, but, with nothing really to lose, she took out her cell phone and dialed the number.

  Her movement caught Ambrosius’ attention and he asked, “Who are you calling?”

  “I’m following up on possibly our only lead,” she said

  An answering service picked up on the other end of the phone after three rings. “You have reached the office of Jack Foshay, Professor of English Literature. I am currently away from my desk, but please feel free to leave a message. I will do my best to get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  There was a brief silent pause followed by an annoying drawn out beep.

  “Professor Foshay, this is Special Agent Amy Sommers of the FBI. My partner and I are in Boston following a lead in an ongoing investigation. We were hoping we could meet with you at your earliest convenience, and that you might be able to provide us with some background information which could prove valuable to our case,” she said, also giving her own cell phone number so the professor could return her call.

  She was surprised by how young the professor’s voice had sounded. When she thought of English Literature teachers, the stereotypical image of an ancient stuffy bookworm came to mind. This guy, on the other hand, sounded more like he should be a student. It really did not matter either way as long as he could help them in some manner.

  She felt Ambrosius staring at her, and when she looked over at the British agent, she smiled when she saw the questioning look on his face.

  “Agent Blackburn slipped me this professor’s name and number before we left Washington. He is supposed to be some kind of King Arthur expert. If the sword is in Boston, this guy might be able to help.”

  “An expert,” Ambrosius said. “I hope so.” There was an odd skeptical tone in Ambrosius’ voice as he made his comment, and a look of righteous indignation on his face. For the life of her, she could not figure out why.

  They drove through Boston and stopped in front of the Hilton

  The driver let the car idle as they stepped out. The wind was not as strong as it had been, but the temperature was still icy cold. She was shivering by the time she and Ambrosius moved to the rear of the vehicle to retrieve their bags.

  “Agents, if you would follow me, please,” the driver said. Mr. Perfect Hair handed over the keys to a parking valet, and then waved them toward the entrance.

  “Shall we?” she asked Ambrosius.

  “I believe we shall,” the British agent said, motioning for her to take the lead.

  The lobby of the Hilton Hotel was huge, and tastefully decorated in a 1920’s art deco style. Their Agency assigned attendant, aide, driver, or whatever his title happened to be, was at the front desk, already checking them in. He was helpful, Amy had to admit, but she was getting the distinct impression she and Ambrosius were being handled. The sooner he, his placating pleasantries and his styling gelled head were gone, the better.

  “Agent Sommers and Agent Ambrosius, you will be staying in rooms 305 and 307,” he said, handing each of them their room keys. “When your case is completed or if you need to return to Washington or travel to anywhere else, contact me through the Agency and I will make the arrangements for you.” At this point, the aide handed her a business card. It was plain white with only a phone number printed on it. He also handed her the valet ticket for the sedan. “If you do not have need of anything else, my cab will be arriving shortly.”

  With that, he turned sharply and walked back out into the early Boston evening. She stood a little taken aback by the abruptness of his departure, though she could not say she was sorry to see him go.

  “Gee, I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrosius smile at her joke. “What do you say to dumping our bags in our rooms, and finding out if this place has a decent restaurant? And, more importantly, a bar?”

  “I would have to say that is the best plan I have heard yet,” Ambrosius said.

  —Chapter 14

  The hotel’s restaurant had filled to near capacity in the short time it had taken them to drop off their bags and return to the lobby. The rumblings coming from her empty stomach reminded Amy it had been awhile since she had last eaten. This day had been so chaotic there had not been time to sit and enjoy a meal. It started to catch up to her as what little strength she was doing her best to maintain waned. The incredibly appetizing aromas did not help either, making her head spin.

  One look at Ambrosius, and she could tell he was experiencing the same dizzying effect.

  “I don’t know about you, but if we are made to wait, I might have to shoot the maitre d’,” she said.

  “If you do, I don’t know how they could call it anything other than a justifiable homicide,” Ambrosius said.

  “Good, as long as we are in agreement then,” she said before walking to the restaurant. She did not bother to see if Ambrosius was following. At this point, it was all she could do to keep from sprinting like a school aged kid running to get to the front of the line on pizza day in the cafeteria.

  The restaurant was called Caliterra Bar & Grille. According to a sign in the front window, it specialized in California and Tuscan cuisine. She planned on putting that claim to the test. As a former resident of the Golden State, she was pretty familiar with the food it had to offer. To be honest, though, she was so hungry they could serve her an old boot smothered in gravy and she would have devoured it and probably asked for seconds.

  The maitre d’ did not know how close to death he came when he paused while looking for a table for her and Ambrosius. She was sure they were going to be told there was a wait, but as luck would have it the restaurant was not completely full. They were led to a table large enough to seat four towards the rear of the place. The noisy clatter of the restaurant’s other patrons enjoying their own meals followed them.

  The warm lighting only added to the comfortable ambiance. Under different circumstances, she would have considered Caliterra’s atmosphere to be romantic, but she had no intention of being prim and proper. Her plan was to scarf down a steak and guzzle back a couple of drinks in a very unladylike manner.

  Their waiter, young enough to be in college and good-looking enough to be a magazine underwear model, approached before she had to resort to eating her napkin.

  “May I start either of you of
f with a drink?” he asked. He wore the customary black slacks, white dress shirt, black vest and black bow tie, with a white apron tied around his waist which included a pocket for his order pad. He had wavy brown hair with matching eyes. She also caught the glint of a diamond stud earring in his left ear.

  “Yes, I’ll have a scotch neat,” Ambrosius said.

  She could not help but chuckle at the sound of near desperation in her partner’s voice. She felt for him, though. It had been a long day, and a drink would definitely hit the spot.

  “And I will have a rum and Coke with lots of ice,” she said, foregoing her usual cold beer. She was in the mood for something a little more potent.

  “Very good. I will be back with your drinks and take your food order,” the waiter said, before doing an about face.

  “So, Agent Sommers,” Ambrosius said, catching her off guard as she looked over the menu. “What do you know about this expert you called earlier?”

  She thought for a few seconds before responding. “Not much really, other than the fact he is a professor at Boston University. All Agent Blackburn said was the guy is supposed to be one of the foremost experts on the Arthurian legend.”

  Ambrosius had been doing his own perusing of the menu, but peeked over the top with the same look of skepticism that he had shown in the car. She was about to question exactly what his problem was, but the waiter returned with their drinks and her only thought returned to the basic necessity of food. She ordered a 12oz. New York strip steak, medium rare, with a baked potato and a side salad. Ambrosius decided on the pan roasted Atlantic salmon and a bowl of clam chowder. No matter what else transpired with this investigation, they were at least going to eat like royalty this evening.

  She had just taken her first glorious sip of her rum and coke when her phone vibrated on her hip. She did not immediately recognize the number.