The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  The last time he was here, he had simply walked into the apartment after Jackson himself had opened the door. Now, he would have to put some of his other talents to work. A Boy Scout he was not, but their motto of always being prepared definitely applied to him.

  He smiled inwardly as he removed a small black case from his coat pocket. Inside was everything he would need to pick any number of locks, ranging from a common padlock all the way up to the most sophisticated electronic locks used by high profile security systems. One look at the regular key lock on the apartment’s door, and he knew there was not going to be any level of difficulty involved in getting around it.

  Removing two small silver items which resembled miniature dental picks, he knelt down to eye level with the doorknob. He inserted the tools into the lock and after several seconds of maneuvering them around, he heard an audible click. Leaving the picks in place, he gave the handle a testing turn. Much to his satisfaction, the door opened.

  He waited a few seconds, staring into the darkened interior. Nothing seemed amiss, but he wanted to make sure the place was completely empty before going inside. Once he was positive the apartment was clear, he removed the picks and replaced then in the case, slipping it back into his pocket. Then, bent over low enough to get under the police tape without disturbing it, he let himself in. He quickly and as quietly as possible shut the door behind him.

  The interior of the living space was nearly pitch black. The only light came from the glow of the streetlamp outside, causing some odd shadowy images on the ceiling and wall across from the window, but he barely noticed. He was death incarnate and a darkened room did not bother him. In fact, it was where he was most comfortable.

  The apartment was unnaturally still. This was the same sensation every residence took on when the person living there died. It was as if whatever made a place a home died with its owner. All that was left was an empty shell which would have given a normal person the creeps, but to him was a compliment to a job well done.

  He withdrew from the magic which concealed him and made his way to the Jackson’s office without hesitation. If any real answers as to the sword’s current whereabouts were to be found, it would be there.

  Even though the place was dark, he could still see where the police and detectives had disturbed many items in their desperate search for clues. Jackson had been a neat and tidy person; what some people might refer to as fussy. As a result, his apartment had been immaculate in its cleanliness. Now, however, the place looked like a lazy housekeeper had neglected his or her duties and had hastily tried to clean up before being discovered.

  The investigators handiwork could be seen most clearly in the office, which looked like it had been ransacked. Either that or a small and contained explosive device had been detonated. If Jackson could have seen this mess in his private little sanctuary, he would have suffered another major coronary.

  The Ghost walked over to the desk, figuring any information Jackson had on his translation would probably be found there. On his previous visit, he had not paid much attention to the room in general. He’d sat quietly, and even napped as Jackson went about his business. It was not until Jackson had seemingly finished the task that the Ghost slipped out of the magical cloak of camouflage the bracelet provided.

  Once Jackson blurted out New York City as the sword’s location and then had the audacity to die, he had left in a hurry before properly double checking the information. This lack of attention to detail had cost him valuable time. In his haste to get started, he had grabbed the document, thinking it would have whatever details he would need, only to discover Jackson had left no other clues with it. Now he was back completing a job he should have done more thoroughly the first time. This breach in his personal protocol was near unforgivable, and he could only hope it would not cost him in the end.

  He turned on the polished silver desk lamp, hoping no one on the street would notice the soft glow coming from a dead man’s apartment. It was then he noticed what looked like mini plastic easels not far from his feet. They were the same color yellow as the police tape marking the front door, with black numbers printed on both sides. It was a wonder he had not stepped on them when he had crossed through the room in the dark.

  Upon closer inspection he could see the little easels were actually forensic team tools marking several brown and red spots which had dried onto the office’s carpet. He grinned maniacally. The spots were the blood splatter from his interrogation with Jackson. He was on the verge of continuing his inspection of the desk and its drawers when a large cluster of the forensic markers on the floor on the other side of the desk caught his attention.

  He stood on his tiptoes so he could peer over the edge of the desk and saw a large garnet-colored stain which looked like it had been applied by a small paintbrush. He was stunned by the realization that what he was seeing was a message.

  He walked over to read Jackson’s last words scrawled desperately into the carpet more clearly. After seeing what had been written, especially the city name Boston, he was both happy, and angrier than he had been in a long time. In one last great act of defiance, the translator had not only tricked him, but had enough presence of mind to tip Blackburn off as well.

  “Bastard!” he said yelling into the silence of the empty apartment. “I hope you’re roasting in the deepest pit of hell, old man!”

  He was so angry, he was trembling, on the verge of losing control. He took several deep calming breaths, and when he felt the fire in his stomach begin to subside knew he had kept his temper from boiling over. Now that he was able to think clearly once again, he chuckled. Jackson’s failure was now complete. The message the translator had left for Blackburn had also found its way to him.

  He now knew the city where the fabled sword Excalibur was hidden, but did not know the exact location. Boston was a large city and one of the oldest in the country. There were any number of places the sword could be, and without any kind of reference point, he had no idea where to start. He could spend days if not weeks trying to piece together the puzzle of the blade’s secret resting place.

  Then it dawned on him, this was exactly what Blackburn must be doing right now. Thanks to the dead translator’s last message, Blackburn knew to go to Boston, but not where to find the sword.

  The Ghost had a rather pleasant image of the fat agent stumbling around the city, looking like a complete fool, overturning every rock his obese carcass came across. The mirth of the moment was short lived, however. He knew how resourceful Blackburn could be, and the man no doubt was working on some kind of plan.

  The document was the key, he knew. Those fools of the Na Ri` Laoch along with the powers that be at the Agency believed it was some kind of map which it may very well be, but it might also lay out exactly where the sword actually was.

  It was not until he’d examined the paper while on the plane that he realized he had no way of reading it. The actual translation had to still be here, somewhere in Jackson’s apartment, and more specifically, here in this room.

  From what he was able to recall, Jackson had spent most of his time working on the computer, occasionally standing up to flip through some books located on the shelves directly behind the desk.

  Since he had not found anything important in the drawers, the most logical place to look next was the computer itself. He seated himself in the leather chair, which, he noted, was much more comfortable than the one he used in his own office back at his club. He made a mental note to rectify that matter when he returned.

  As the system booted up, he had a momentary flash of panic when he realized the information might be password protected, but as the system finished loading, and the desktop came up without any problems or requests of password confirmation, he calmed down It only reaffirmed how much of an incompetent fool Jackson had been. The man had a state of the art computer system with which he used to translate material for the most covert agency in the world, and the trusting old coot did not even bother to create a simple
password.

  The Ghost spent the better part of the next half an hour running through the computer files without any success. As the minutes ticked by, his frustration grew. He felt ready to put his fist through the flat liquid crystal display monitor, and then toss it out of the nearest window. If he did not get what he was looking for soon, Blackburn might stumble across the sword by sheer blind luck, and that would complicate matters. He could not let that happen.

  He was about to give in to his violent temper and lash out at the computer when he noticed an icon in the lower right hand corner of the monitor on the taskbar. He had completely overlooked it before, but now it seemed to be shining like a beacon, calling out for his attention. It resembled a tiny version of the Rosetta Stone, and he knew he had found what he had been so desperately looking for.

  He manipulated the mouse so the pointer was directly over the icon and double clicked it. Immediately the special program Jackson used for difficult projects came up onto the screen. It looked unremarkable at first. Disappointment nearly took his breath away and threatened to unlock the fury he had already repressed more than once this evening. Then he saw a program file named simply “Agency”. He clicked the file eagerly, anticipating he would finally have the desired translated version of the precious document, but found only more confusion instead.

  Inside the file was a series of names with what appeared to be dates listed after them. He scrolled down until he saw Blackburn’s name, but the date after it did not make any sense. According to the numbers, something had been referenced with the corpulent Agent’s name on March 19, 1973. Why would Jackson care enough about a translation he did over thirty years ago that he would keep Blackburn’s name and date all this time? Unless, maybe, the numbers were not a date at all.

  He looked at the numbers as they were configured on the screen, 3-19-73. Perhaps there was some kind of password after all. Or, even more likely, a code. He scanned the room for any indication that there might be a safe hidden somewhere, on the off chance the numbers were a combination. He had a knack for spotting items of that nature, but he came up empty.

  He surveyed the entire room, taking in every minute detail he could. His gaze came to rest on the bookshelves directly behind him. This was the same area he remembered Jackson pulling books from while working on the document’s translation.

  He skimmed the titles, trying to glean any helpful piece of information and figure out what he was missing. He had never heard of any of them as they all had to do with ancient languages and cultures.

  The answer was here. He felt it so strongly, he could almost taste it. It was like having the answer to a question right on the tip of your tongue, but being unable to spit it out.

  There were books of all sizes on the six different shelves that made up the bookcase from floor to ceiling. He looked back at the computer screen, and could see the name of his arch nemesis and the mysterious numbers staring back at him, taunting him. He could almost hear the mocking sounds of Jackson’s laughter from beyond the grave. What was the connection?

  He looked back and forth between the computer and the bookcase several times before an idea crept into his head, then felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

  “It can’t be that easy, can it?”

  He went to the third shelf and traced his finger down the row of books lined up like well trained soldiers, counting each one as he touched it. When he got to the nineteenth, he stopped This particular book just so happened to be the tallest on the shelf, long enough, in fact, to conceal a standard size sheet of paper.

  The Ghost could only shake his head in amusement. What an utter fool Jackson must have been to utilize such a ridiculous method of trying to conceal his work.

  He tugged the book free from its perch. It put up a minor resistance, wedged tightly between its two neighboring books. The cover showed a glossy picture of green grass covering rolling hills. The old idiot had actually hidden the document’s translation in a book detailing the history of the Gaelic culture and language. He might as well have put up a large red neon sign with an arrow.

  As he opened the book up, the spine crackled with age. The ancient translator could have probably related to that before his untimely demise.

  On page 73, he opened the book all the way. There, resting comfortably in the fold, was a white sheet of computer printer paper.

  He removed the sheet, and tossed the now useless book on the desk. He had what he wanted, his treasure in the form of a single piece of paper.

  A large grin spread across his face. He had the name of the city, and now he had the exact location of the sword.

  Excalibur’s hiding spot was somewhat of a surprise, but nothing that would pose a major problem for him. All he needed to do to put the puzzle together was go to Boston and collect his reward. Then he would snuff out Blackburn’s miserable life like the flame of a candle. That was the part of this whole devious scheme he was most looking forward to. Finding Excalibur would be pleasurable, but the dispatching of Agent Reggie Blackburn would be the most gratifying.

  He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into the same inside pocket of his overcoat as the lock picking tools, still grinning like a court jester. The only dilemma facing him now was to decide whether he should try and catch a flight out to Boston later this evening or wait until morning.

  The lure of a good night’s sleep won out, and he decided to check into a plush hotel. He would sleep in and eat a hearty breakfast, but, first, he would celebrate this evening success.

  A muffled rattling sound cut through his reverie like a hot spoon through ice cream.

  He knew instantly that it was the front doorknob being turned, that someone had just entered the apartment.

  Without hesitation, he called upon the magic of the bracelet and fell into its comforting embrace. Knowing he could not be seen, he moved from the office into the hall. From there he would be able to see who else was now with him in Jackson’s apartment.

  At first all he could see was the shadow of someone moving around the front room. When this new visitor came into view he immediately recognized the large frame of the last person he expected to see.

  He felt a rage like no other encase his body. He wanted to spring into action and do what he did best. It would seem this evening’s celebratory festivities were about to begin a little earlier than he could have imagined.

  —Chapter 17

  Blackburn drove straight to Jackson’s apartment building.

  He knew he shouldn’t be driving after as many beers as he’d consumed. His head was still a little fuzzy from the alcohol, but he felt like he was thinking clearly for the first time this evening. If he was going to find anything which would be of use to Sommers and her investigation, it would be back at the scene of Jackson’s gruesome death.

  Luckily, traffic was light. The longer this took, the better the chances of Sommers running into the Ghost, and he could not in good conscience let that happen. Sommers was good, and she was as tough as they came, but the Ghost was a danger she was unprepared to handle even if she thought differently.

  The sound of Paul McCartney’s voice filled the silence, The Beatles song Yesterday pouring through the radio’s speakers. Reggie barely paid attention, as his mind was still on the way he and Sommers had parted. He could not shake the feeling the damage he had undoubtedly caused to their friendship might be irreparable.

  He had grown accustomed to the loneliness which was an unfortunate side effect of being in the employ of the secretive Agency. He worked alone, lived alone and even socialized alone. Sommers was the first real friend he’d had in more years than he cared to remember, a kindred spirit. She was as dedicated to the cause of justice as he was. She was also the only person he had run across in his 44 years who was even more sarcastic than he was. He had not fully realized how important her friendship had become. He would do anything within his power to salvage that friendship even if it meant breaking every rule in the book. It was the least he coul
d do to save the only friend he had.

  This case seemed so innocuous when he had found the document in the run down apartment of the IRA terrorists. He had been so sure it was the perfect one for Sommers to cut her teeth on. The unexpected twist of Jackson’s murder and the introduction of the Ghost into the fold however, had really upped the ante.

  He could have kicked himself for not anticipating the danger Sommers was now facing. He, better than most, understood the true nature many of the Agency’s cases took, how every single one inevitably took a turn into the realm of the bizarre. He had lost count of how many investigations had gone bad before getting better. It was the nature of the beast, so to speak.

  But who could have ever foreseen the involvement of the Ghost? This was not the type of thing the former agent turned assassin would be a part of.

  That was what scared Reggie the most. If the Ghost was not a part of the hunt for Excalibur to further his own endeavors, then it meant he had ulterior motives, and that could not be good for anyone else involved. Why else would he come out of seclusion for something with no real profit in it?

  He parked, made sure he had his ID in case any law enforcement professionals were still at the crime scene, and jogged across the street. He was embarrassed to find himself out of breath when he reached the building’s front stoop.

  “I gotta lay off the late night pizza runs,” he muttered, between gasps of air.

  Deciding that, under the circumstances, four flights of stairs would be fatal, he took the elevator. A wave of sadness hit him when he saw the yellow tape around Jackson’s door.

  He had known the translator a long time. They had worked together on several occasions. Until now, he had been too caught up in the case for Jackson’s death to really sink in on a personal level. Standing out here in the quiet hallway looking at the police tape, he had the overwhelming urge to grieve.