The Devil's Playground

by Michael Reagan

Confucian gentleman who at all times acted in the way he did on fear of not being seen to do anything, and rather than not defending his honor and that of his family would mean he could not be criticized by people after he had gone. A conclusion it appeared they had reached when they examined his actions in relation to murder of the man in Africa who murdered his woman.

  Zhang didn't think that synopsis was correct. There was more to it than that. When the reports came out from Turkmenistan that he assassinated his business partner over the loss of his gas rights she had assumed it was an act of rage and revenge in the same manner he had once carried out before in the early days of Russia's rebirth when he had ordered the deaths of the Moldovan in Moscow who tried to kill him.

  As far as she was concerned this meant he was anything but a Confucian gentleman. To her he was a good-looking vicious killer who represented a danger to the future of their country because he followed his own rules.

  The arrangement to meet him at the charity event hosted by his American business partner had been easy for the MSS has they had been monitoring Dowling since his name had come in discussion as the source of influence that could be used amongst the Iron Triangle. The use of the Ambassador as the conduit of introduction was just as easy. Yet it was only when she met him that she realized that he was something far more dangerous, and consequently went way beyond his ability to kill, his intelligence or education.

  "He was the first man she had been genuinely attracted to in her life!" She scolded herself for thinking such thoughts. "He is your target, not your lover," she thought determinedly.

  Zhang refocused her mind. The bait had been taken. It was time to catch the fish.

  She picked up her BlackBerry and dialed the number of the mobile that was printed on the bottom left hand corner of the card in her hand.

  The voice of Thomas greeted her almost immediately.

  "Sir Thomas," said Zhang. "It's Zhang Nu."

  "Zhang, you have just brightened up my morning," he said warmly in English.

  "Your gift is greatly appreciated," replied Zhang in flawless English, ignoring his flirt.

  He laughed then replied straight away.

  "You're very difficult lady to buy for so I am glad you liked it."

  Knowing that he was attracted to bold women. Zhang took the high ground.

  "I would like to buy you lunch, are you available?" she asked.

  Without hesitation Thomas replied he was.

  "Excellent do you know the Golden Unicorn on East Broadway?" she asked.

  "No, but I will find it," he answered.

  "Good! See you at twelve sharp. Don't be late or we won't get a table," she ordered.

  22

  Houston

  The Special Agent in Charge of the Houston Division of the DEA was a tall man with a rangy physique, white short hair and a thick horseshoe moustache to match his deep resonant voice with a distinctive Western drawl in it, was Sam Dawkins.

  Apart from being one of the DEA's most experienced field agents, he was also one its experts on the Yazuka due to his years spent in Japan and South East Asia. It was because of this the office in Houston now also doubled as the Headquarters for the DEA on building and bringing cases against the Yazuka. This was the reason why the DEA's lead agent in Mexico a forty-year-old blue-eyed honey blonde with cheerleader looks due to her German, English, Dutch, and Norwegian roots called Jeanie Vandeveer, who also was responsible for keeping tabs on the Shota-Gumi, was in the office now. The object of desire and hatred of Special Agents in the DEA in equal measure, Jeanie also happened to speak fluently in Spanish and Japanese.

  "Okay Jeanie," Sam said, dressed in his dark navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and Republican Red tie as he walked into meeting room of the 1980s looking building that were commonplace in Houston.

  "Jesus, boss, I almost didn't recognize you!" exclaimed Jeanie teasing him in her West Texan accent accompanying her ultra-white smile.

  Having spent most of his life in the DEA undercover with long hair, Sam had only just succumbed to life on the corporate side of the agency. Truth be told it was only recently he was just beginning to get used to it. He gave a fake growl in return.

  "Very funny," he said. "Now what gives?"

  The pretty blonde pulled up a slide on the wall via the projector connected to her laptop.

  "This," she said.

  Sam looked at the picture on the wall. It was a picture of Shota Oshima and two men. He immediately recognized the Caucasian of the group. It was Henry Dowling. He didn't recognize the second man but he looked Indian to him.

  "Who is the Indian?" Sam asked.

  "That's just it, Boss, When we ran his picture we got a red flag." Jeanie replied using the term to describe an asset of another federal agency.

  "Which agency?" Sam asked.

  "CIA," replied Jeanie.

  Sam sighed. The relationship between the DEA and CIA was strained at the best of times because over the years Langley had regularly worked with drug cartels around the world to further their political destabilization ambitions. It had even cost the lives of several DEA agents who had been betrayed by the CIA in order to curry favor with the various gangs.

  It was only in the last few years when the previous Administration ordered them to work together on the war on drugs that their strained relationship had begun to work better.

  That meant as a courtesy the CIA had to inform the DEA whenever they were running an operation with one of their targets. The fact that it appeared they hadn't bothered to do so with regard to Oshima meant that they were back to their old tricks.

  The second the new Secretary of State had been appointed the upper management of the DEA, he assumed that it would only be a matter of time that their brethren would use the political cover of one their own to reboot their old ways. This latest action only appeared to confirm it.

  "I take it by the look on your face the DEA wasn't aware of his presence?" Jeanie asked.

  "Yep." replied Sam. "Leave it with me," he ordered his agent, shutting down the conversation.

  The second Sam left the conference room and was back in his office he picked up the digital phone on his desk. The number he dialed belonged to one of the few men he figured he could trust in the CIA.

  They had first met on an operation in Indonesia when the man had been a field agent in the Middle East in 2008 when one of the Taliban warlords they used in Afghanistan and also happened to be one of the biggest exporters of Heroin in the country had gone bad and blown up the Serena Hotel in Kabul. In usual circumstances that wouldn't have been enough to justify the handing over of an asset but because a former personal aide of President Clinton had been killed in the attack, President Bush had ordered that he be brought to justice. Even the CIA couldn't ignore a Presidential Directive so they had reluctantly handed him over.

  Using his cover as a personal representative of one of the Sheikhs of Arabian Gulf, the man had first lured the Afghan to Jakarta on the pretense of setting up a "hunting trip" in the Taliban commander's region and had then organized his rendition.

  Unlike most men of the Agency Sam had found much to his surprise over drinks in the Mandarin Oriental after the operation he had really enjoyed the company of the man. Like him, he was principled, a straight talker and most importantly a "Shadow." He could even forgive his British accent. They had become firm friends over the years. They never gave each other the run around and if each other's Agency was running an operation and they couldn't tell each other about it, they would say so.

  "Ashley speaking," said the voice down the phone.

  "Hi Englishman," said Sam in reply.

  "Cowboy!" Rob responded down the phone continuing to use the call signs they had given each other all those years ago. "Great to hear your voice," he warmly continued before each man launched enquiries into each other's families.

  Stories about potty training and grandchildren out of the way, Sam got down to business.

  "How you
feel about a having a true Mexican dinner with me?" Sam said. Rob laughed.

  "Better not let my wife hear you saying that," he said and then replied, picking up on Sam's code, "Sure why not?"

  "Great I will pick you up from the Airport tomorrow. Let me know what flight you're on," said Sam.

  "No need, I will take one of the jets," replied Rob. It was Sam's turn to chuckle.

  "I forget how you DDs love to spend our tax dollars!" with a friendly huff over the fact that Deputy Directors of the CIA were never allowed to travel commercial.

  "Tut Tut!" replied Rob before confirming he would see him at six tomorrow evening.

  Any resident of Houston would tell you that the best place for Tex-Mex is the family-run restaurant La Mexicana that has been serving Montrose since 1982, and to this day the food reflects those years of loving care.

  Over their first beers of the evening Sam decided to get the business out of the way before ordering.

  "Rob, are you running any operations in Mexico at the moment?" he asked.

  "One or two," answered Rob after taking a sip of his ice-cold beer.

  Sam nodded, then asked.

  "Is one of them with the Shota-Gumi?"

  "Who?" Rob replied.

  "They are a Yazuka gang that operates out of Mexico," answered Sam.

  "Christ, now there's a combination," Rob observed as Sam studied his face for a moment for any micro-expressions that would give away a lie. "A Japanese-Mexican drug cartel! In answer to your question, Sam, no we are not! Why do you ask?"

  Satisfied his friend wasn't lying, Sam opened his iPad then