Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  “Not a fan of Juneau, are you? You should be grateful. I could have sent you to Desolation Point.”

  “I don’t know where that is, but it sounds a lot like my state of mind right now. Come on, Moore, give us the brief and go get your sadistic jollies somewhere else.”

  “Very well. As is now standard procedure, you have a handler for this job. You are to report to her immediately upon ending this phone call and stay in touch with her throughout the mission. She will report to me. No more of this business of having three or four different agents sending me different reports that almost invariably contradict one another. Also, it will be much more secure this way.”

  “Okay, so how do we find her?”

  “I’m sending you an encoded address. Memorize it, then delete it. Have Venus memorize it as well, in case something happens to one of you.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Tiger—”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. This mission is more dangerous than it may seem.”

  And the line went dead. A moment later, there was a ding and the message appeared on Burke’s screen. He ran it through SpyCo’s in-house decoding app and read the address aloud to Lyndsey. They repeated it back to each other, and then Burke deleted the message.

  “It’s a go, then,” he said. “Let’s grab a cab. Wait, are there cabs in this town?”

  As it turned out, there were cabs in Juneau. Burke and Lyndsey flagged one down outside the airport, a green van with the words “EverGreen Taxi” printed in white on the front door panel.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  Burke told him, and within minutes, they were pulling up in front of the most charming house Burke had ever seen since his recent trip to Sydney, Australia. There, his handler had been a crusty, profane old woman named Dot, who had been stationed in a little white house with a picket fence. In fact, Burke was struck by the similarities. The two houses could almost have been exact duplicates, except where the Sydney version had sported a well-tended garden, this yard was covered by a blanket of snow.

  Lyndsey saw Burke staring. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Maybe I have. If houses have ghosts.”

  “The hell?”

  “It’s so weird. My handler in Sydney had a house that looked almost exactly like this one.”

  “This Dot character you told me about?”

  “The very same.”

  “She sounds hilarious. I think it would be awesome if she was on this job too.”

  “Impossible. That would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, she’s way too old to be—”

  The front door swung open and an old woman stood there, the very picture of the elderly grandmother.

  Burke gaped through the cab window. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “It’s her! It’s Dot!”

  Lyndsey clapped her hands in that little girl fashion Burke found so endearing. “That’s awesome! I can’t wait to meet her.” And with that, Lyndsey piled out of the cab.

  The driver looked back at Burke and tapped the meter.

  Burke sighed and handed over the money. Then he, too, climbed from the cab. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dot—in fact, he wished she was actually his own grandmother—but he was feeling irritable and not in the mood to have his ego demolished by her well-timed putdowns.

  He followed Lyndsey up the walk. After fiddling an inordinate amount of time with the latch on the picket gate, he gave Dot a wobbly grin.

  “Hello, Dot. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “You and me both, Nancy. Alaska is not for this old broad.”

  Burke nodded at Lyndsey. “Dot, this is Lyndsey. Lyndsey, Dot.”

  “Ah, so you’re the one he’s screwing,” Dot said. “I knew you had to be a looker, the way he passed on Charlie back in Australia. I know a player when I see one, but you seem to have this one on a leash.”

  Lyndsey grinned. She was acting almost as if she was meeting a movie star. “I’ve heard so much about you, Dot,” she said. “You were all Burke would talk about after he got back from Sydney.”

  “I tend to make a strong impression. Not always a good one, but strong.”

  Burke stomped his feet. “What are the odds we could come inside, Dot? It’s freezing out here.”

  Dot pulled the door open wide, letting Burke and Lyndsey troop inside. “I’m shocked Moore chose you for this job, Burke. You strike me as more of a bikinis and beach kind of guy.”

  “I strike myself that way too,” Burke said, “but Moore didn’t seem open to disagreement.”

  Dot huffed. “He never is, the wanker. He knows the cold gets in my old bones. He forgets I’m not seventy anymore.” She looked at Lyndsey. “What about you, Perky Tits? You like the cold weather?”

  Lyndsey shook her head. “I hate the cold. But maybe we’ll see the northern lights.”

  Dot uttered a string of profanities and then growled, “Give me half a chance and I’ll shove the northern lights up Moore’s Southern Cross.”

  Burke thought Lyndsey was going to burst a blood vessel as she doubled over in a paroxysm of mirth.

  “Burke…told me you were…hilarious!”

  Dot looked at Burke, deadpan as hell. “You didn’t build me up too much, did you, Nancy? I don’t need that kind of pressure.”

  Burke shook his head. “No, actually, I told her you were a horrible old woman without even a shred of empathy. Made you out to be something of a psychopath, actually.”

  “Good,” Dot said. “I can work with psychopath. Now, as soon as your lady friend comes around, I’ll fill you in.”

  6

  Well, should we go in?” Burke asked as he and Lyndsey stood in front of Rance Rainwater’s office door.

  “I’m a little nervous, given what Dot told us last night about her visit.”

  “It was late and she was a little tipsy on those pumpkin rum shots she made. She probably made most of that stuff up.”

  “I don’t know,” Lyndsey said. “She strikes me as a woman who can hold her liquor.”

  “With her experience, she ought to. When Dot takes an alcohol test, they don’t test her breath. They use a needle. If she has more than .08 blood in her veins, they hook up an alcohol IV.”

  Burke found his joke highly amusing, but Lyndsey barely cracked a smile.

  “I think you should leave the jokes to Dot,” she said.

  Burke scowled and hit the door handle with much more force than was necessary. The door flew open, sending a gust of snow-laden wind into the office.

  A man behind the desk looked up from his computer. He smiled through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “SpyCo, I presume?”

  Burke stepped into the office, followed closely by a reluctant Lyndsey. He cast a glance around the office and his lip curled involuntarily. The office reeked of mold, mildew, and body odor. Haphazard piles of papers and file folders cluttered most surfaces in the room. An opened box of cold pizza served as a couch pillow. Books lined shelves that crawled across the walls. In short, the place was a dump.

  The man stood up. He moved around the desk, sat down on its edge, and pulled out a soft pack of Winstons and lit a fresh one using the cherry on the end of the other. He inhaled and then motioned to Lyndsey and Burke, indicating their clothing.

  “You folks aren’t sourdoughs, I take it,” he said, breathing out the smoke. “It’s not cold enough for all that gear. I could excuse the old woman—she needed the warmth—but you two just look ridiculous.”

  Lyndsey waved a tendril of smoke away from her face. “So…you’re Rance Rainwater?”

  The man nodded and blew smoke from his mouth in lazy rings. “That’s me. Rance Rainwater, private investigator. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m guessing the old woman you mentioned was Dot?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what her name was. She’s how I know that SpyCo is in the area. She also said Timo recommended me.”

  Burke picked up a pil
e of papers from a leather chair in front of Rainwater’s desk and sat down. Lyndsey looked around the filthy room and remained on her feet.

  “I suppose you are due an introduction,” Burke said. “This must all be coming as quite a surprise. I know my head would be spinning.”

  “That’s the coke and the whiskey chaser talking,” Rance said. “Otherwise, I’m fine.”

  Burke paused, then regrouped. “My name’s James Burke and my partner is Lyndsey Archer.”

  “Sorry if I don’t seem in awe,” Rance said, “but I’ve never heard of you.”

  “That’s actually comforting,” Archer muttered.

  Burke shot her a dark look. “You’ll have to pardon Ms. Archer. It was a long flight yesterday and she hates the cold.”

  “It’s not cold yet,” Rance said.

  Burke nodded patiently. “Happily, we don’t plan to be here long.”

  “It really isn’t that bad, once you’ve given up on life.”

  Burke drew a deep breath, coughing a little on the rank cigarette smoke. “I understand from Dot that you’ve seen the dossier on our mark?”

  Rance indicated a folder on the desk. “Been through it a hundred times. Each time, I keep hoping I’ll feel better about all this. A little different target than my usual.”

  “We only want you to find him. Keep an eye out and let us know the minute he’s spotted. Don’t try to take him on by yourself.” Burke reached inside his coat and came out with a card that he handed to Rance. “If you see anything, call that number. You’ll get what sounds like a voicemail greeting. Leave a one-word message, ‘Juneau,’ and then hang up. I’ll call you back on the number you used to call me, so don’t leave the phone once you’ve left the message until you hear from me.”

  Rance nodded. “Sounds like real James Bond shit.”

  “It’s not Bond, but it is real shit. Don’t take chances. In fact, once we’ve all had some breakfast, it’s time for some training sessions.”

  “Some what?”

  “Training sessions.”

  Rance’s eyes widened and his face reddened. “I don’t need any goddamn training sessions.”

  “Well, you’re getting them. We don’t anticipate you ever needing to get physically involved in this mission, but it would be unfair to ask you to do anything for us and not provide you with at least a little preparation.”

  “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

  “Consider me a skeptic willing to be proven wrong.”

  “I thought you trusted your man Timo’s judgment.”

  “I trust my friend Perry Hall’s judgment, and he trusts Timo’s judgment.”

  “Get me on the training course and I’ll show you a thing or two.”

  Burke cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what we’re going to train you to do.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Throw it all at me and I’ll knock it out of the park.”

  7

  Guy Williams never wanted to be a politician. And, saddled as he was with a strong sense of justice and a genuine desire to help the less fortunate, it could be argued he didn’t make a particularly good one. Even though he was a gifted orator and well-liked by many, politics was not his bag. In fact, he found politics to be a necessary evil, though he viewed most politicians as being corrupted by special interests. It was, through this common bond with his fellow voters—Alaskans tend to view politics and government through a highly suspicious lens—that he’d managed to be elected governor.

  Williams had attended law school and specialized in civil litigation, where he’d met his wife of forty years, Mary. They both graduated summa cum laude and opened their own firm, representing individuals and families overlooked by the system. They fought to make sure these people received the medical, welfare, and unemployment benefits they rightfully deserved.

  In the tradition of many Alaskans, Williams was a contrarian and not afraid to take on the state and federal government. When a political consultant had floated the idea of running for state representative, he had been resistant to the idea.

  “I can do more good from here,” he’d said, indicating his law office. However, with a little prodding from Mary, he became more amenable to the idea. “But, no matter what, I’ll always be a man of the people.”

  As it happened, he was one of the few politicians who kept his promises. From his two terms as state representative, three terms as a state senator and, now, halfway through his second term as governor, he was always accessible. He would open his mansion to citizens, for one-on-one time and a hearty handshake. Like Abraham Lincoln, whose picture he kept above the mantel in the office of the governor’s mansion, he trusted the populace and wanted to be available to them.

  “After all,” he reasoned, “they’re the reason I’m here.”

  One of his favorite things to do this time of year was to push his leather chair close to the window and watch the children sledding down the hill behind the mansion. He admired their obliviousness to the cold and their disregard for the real world. Childlike innocence. It was so easy then, he remembered, growing up in Fairbanks all those years ago. Those short winter days spent sledding down what passed for hills in Fairbanks. Coming inside with a red, runny nose and delighting in a cup of Mother’s hot cocoa. Life was simple and carefree.

  He sat in that chair now, watching the gently falling snowflakes and the playing children. But his mind was far away. At last, he shook his head.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Ron Fitzmeyer, his chief of staff and head of security, stood in the middle of the room. “But, sir,” he said. “We have a credible report that your life is at risk. As your head of security, I must insist you cancel the Christmas party.”

  Williams stood from the chair. He was a spry and handsome sixty-three-year-old, with silver hair along the sides of his bald head. His deeply set grey eyes missed nothing. He smiled.

  “Ron, how long have you known me?”

  “Sixteen years now, sir.”

  Williams walked over to the mini bar. “Sixteen years. Has it been that long? Time really does fly.” He picked up two glasses. “You still take your whiskey neat?”

  “I’m on duty, sir. No, thank you.”

  “You’ve known me sixteen years. You don’t have to call me sir.”

  “I do when I’m on duty, sir.”

  Williams handed a glass of whiskey to Fitzmeyer, who reluctantly took it. The governor then made one for himself and held up the drink as if making a toast. He nodded at Fitzmeyer’s glass. “Drink,” he said.

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “Have a drink. For me.”

  Fitzmeyer took a quick sip and then set the glass down on the coffee table. “Sir, the information I have is from an international espionage agency.”

  “Not the CIA.”

  “No, sir. You’ve heard of SpyCo?”

  “Of course. If there’s a high-level government official in this country who hasn’t, they should be run out of office for incompetence. I’ve heard a lot of stories, although you never know exactly what to believe. I have never personally met any of their operatives.”

  “But you know enough to agree that spreading false reports is not their typical modus operandi. Your life is in danger.”

  “You misunderstand me, Ron. I’m not saying the report is false.”

  “Then why in heaven’s name wouldn’t you take preventative measures?”

  “I am. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Sir, the report suggests the threat to be much greater than should be handled by our existing security staff. We need to cancel the party and keep you out of sight until the real threat can be assessed.”

  Williams chuckled. “Keep me out of sight? Given my reputation for being accessible, I’d say keeping out of sight might cause panic. Certainly rumors would begin to fly. Once the media got hold of it, who knows what would come of it?”

  “Be that as it may, I believe caution is the best course of action, sir.�
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  “Ron, how many credible threats are there against my life on a daily basis?”

  “Very few. That’s why I’m concerned.”

  Williams looked at the portrait of Abraham Lincoln over his mantel. He pointed at it, using the same hand holding his glass. “See that man there? Abraham Lincoln. The Great Emancipator. He was hated by at least half the country. In fact, he confided in his wife and to his staff that he thought—no, that he knew—his life was in danger. That he would die in office at the hand of an assassin. But that didn’t stop him.” By now Williams had moved to his desk and sat back down. “I haven’t done anything quite so controversial or momentous as fighting a civil war and freeing slaves. Who am I to cower before threats?” The governor gazed out at the softly falling snow and sighed. “No, Ron. The Christmas party will go on, threat or no threat.”

  RANCE’S CAR flew through the cones, made a hairpin turn, and came to a sliding, slushy stop. A few feet away, Burke stood, holding a stopwatch in a gloved hand. Rance rolled his window down and Burke peered in, his breath visible in the cold.

  “Good driving,” Burke said, “but we need more speed.”

  Rance was having trouble catching his breath. His CRV wasn’t made for this kind of maneuvering, all-wheel drive or not. “My car won’t go faster,” he complained. “If you want more, you’re going to need to provide me with better equipment.”

  “The machine is only as good as the man driving it,” Burke said.

  Lyndsey frowned. “I thought the saying was ‘the man is only as good as his machine.’”

  “Or perhaps,” Rance cut in, trying to get into the act, “it goes something like ‘the machine is only man enough when it’s…’” His voice trailed off as he lost his train of thought. “You get the point,” he finished lamely.

  Burke ignored the man’s blunder. “This is an evasive driving course, not a ‘take Grandma to church’ course. Try again. And get it right. It’s freezing out here.”

  Over breakfast, Rance had surprised Burke with his knowledge of the area and a broad range of subjects. The man’s appearance, overall demeanor, and horrendously-kept office did nothing to convince one to place trust in him, but getting to know him had helped settle some of Burke’s misgivings. At least, he no longer thought Rance Rainwater was a lost cause. He had turned out to be a keen observer and could blend in as well as anyone Burke had ever seen. And, despite Burke’s insistence on improvement, Rance had proven to be an adept driver.