Don't Order Dog_ 1(123)
Coleman: You can’t be serious.
Murstead: Goodbye Tom.
(Phone disconnects)
Coleman: Alex? (Pause) Alex? Fuck!
(Loud banging noise)
----- END OF TRANSCRIPT -----
Director Connolly snuffed out his cigarette and eased back into the soft leather of his chair. He glanced absently at the countless framed photos of himself and various celebrities and heads of state hanging on the wall across from him. When he spoke, his gravelly, southern-accented voice was slow and deliberate.
“So how do you intend to handle this, Jack?”
“I intend to drag Agent Coleman into my office tomorrow and find out what he knows,” Preston replied earnestly. “If he knows what I think he knows, then we’re back in the game.”
Connolly looked impatiently at the speaker phone. “He obviously knows something. He wouldn’t have mentioned China if he didn’t. Whether or not it’s
of any value to us is the real question. Either way, you won’t need to drag him
into your office to find out. I suspect he’ll be waiting for you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“What makes you think he would do that?” Preston asked, his tone skeptical.
“Because he has nowhere else to go,” Connolly replied, pausing to light another cigarette. “And if I were you, Jack, I’d call attention to that fact when you talk to him. Coleman needs to realize we’re the only family he has left.”
“Right.”
“How’s your man in Beijing?” Connolly asked.
Preston hesitated briefly before answering. “He’s fine. Focused on finding these guys like the rest of us.”
“I’m sure he is. Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. If he’s anything like Coleman, who knows what could happen. Reconnaissance only, correct?”
Preston nodded. “Correct.”
Connolly stared thoughtfully at the thin trail of smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He shook his head and took another deep drag. “Call me immediately after your conversation with Agent Coleman.”
“Will do,” Preston replied.
“And Jack, don’t fuck this up.”
Connolly clicked off the speaker phone before Preston could respond. He pushed the transcript into a thin folder titled “Coleman, Tom/ICE-West” and turned his attention to another document lying on his desk. Embossed at the top of the page was a familiar seal. Connolly sighed exhaustedly as he looked it over. In three days he would be speaking to the House regarding budget appropriations and the future role of the HSI – the intelligence and investigations arm of Homeland Security that he effectively commanded. Of course, he knew he’d have no problem winning over the Congressional members he’d be appearing before. All it took was the right mix of humble intelligence and passion for the cause – served up in his charming southern accent. A few hours of political wrangling, followed by some easily deflectable questions, and a large chunk of ICE’s more than seven billion-dollar annual budget would once again be secured.
But behind his outward appearance of absolute confidence, he was feeling increasingly nervous.
He knew this terrorist situation had the potential to be a huge victory for the Department, and a political windfall for himself once knowledge of his deft handling of the incident was circulated through the appropriate channels. The fallout from the CIA’s presumed mishandling of the investigation would be just more icing on the cake. Christ, I could have the pick of the litter in Intelligence appointments when this is all done Connolly thought smugly as he smiled and took a deep drag of his cigarette.
But his smile quickly faded as his nagging sense of nervousness returned. There was another possible outcome to consider as well – one that ended in disaster if the situation were left solely in the hands of Preston and his rogue idiot in China. Connolly grunted irritably at the thought. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
A contingency plan is always required.
Connolly produced a small key from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. There, lying by itself was a small Moleskine notebook. He quickly removed it and flipped through the thick lined pages, pausing on a page containing a long sequence of numbers. A fleeting feeling of nostalgia from his days with the National Security Agency passed through him as he scanned the numbers, his mind quickly decoding the embedded pattern to the information. He quickly jotted down a number as he read. When he was finished, he returned the notebook to its drawer and immediately relocked it. Grabbing the phone on his desk, he punched in a code for a secure line and entered the string of numbers he’d written down. He took a patient drag of his cigarette as a series of authentication clicks echoed in the handset. A few seconds later, a deep, authoritative voice answered on the other end of the line.