Don't Order Dog_ 1(124)

“Code in please,” the voice demanded bluntly

Connolly tapped the ash from his cigarette and spoke slowly into the phone.

“Connolly 209-4736-07913.”

“Hold please.”

Connolly again felt a twinge of nostalgia as he waited. It had been a long time since he’d ‘coded in’, and he suddenly wondered if his clearance still held. He thought the feeling was oddly similar to calling one’s bank to find out if anything were left in a long-forgotten account.

The line echoed with a second series of clicks, followed by the same male voice. “Code-in verified. How may I help you, sir?”

Connolly took a final drag of his cigarette and smiled into the phone.

“Korean Field Office, please.”





47.




He was done.

He stripped off his latex gloves and stepped out on the balcony. The sky above him was a featureless dome of ash-colored clouds. A short distance away, dark smudges of rain fell onto the endless rows of concrete apartment buildings and stained them in deeper tones of gray. He stretched his arms and took a deep breath. The acrid air of the city filled his lungs like an unwelcomed drug. He let the morning chill wake him, then silently stepped back inside.

The only empty piece of furniture in the dingy, one-room apartment was a bright red futon made of imitation leather. He sat down and lit a cigarette as his eyes fell back to his work. Sitting opposite the futon on a matching red chair, the package stared lifelessly back at him. He studied it carefully, examining it with a critical eye before slowly nodding his approval. He then pulled out his phone and sent a brief message. A few seconds later his phone buzzed in response.

I’ll be there in five minutes.

He read the message from Tall Tommy, then yawned and shoved his phone into his pocket. As he did, his hand met the sharp edge of a folded piece of paper. His fingers stroked it curiously for a moment before he remembered what it was and pulled it out with a knowing sigh. The single sheet of stationary seemed to glow in the soft light as he unfolded it. He looked at it closely, admiring the sweeping feminine curves of handwriting that covered both sides as he slowly reading it again. Once again his mouth formed into a grin. When he was finished, he carefully refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket.

The fake leather futon felt cold against his neck as he sat back and stared absently at the package. His stomach groaned with hunger, but he ignored it. His thoughts were still on her as he sat in the small strange apartment, waiting for the knock on the door. He wondered what she would think of him when it was over. He wondered if she would accept what had been done.

More than anything, he wondered if she would forgive him

for what he was about to do.





48.




Tom Coleman paced quickly through the Immigration and Customs Enforcement office, nodding curtly to the few familiar faces that looked up as he passed. He strolled by the door to his office without so much as a glance and stepped into the elevator. Once on the executive floor, he walked directly to the corner office of the Western Division Director and stopped at the desk of his assistant. A plump, middle-aged woman with short red hair and thick mascara turned and stared at him dully.

“Is the Director going to be in today?” Tom asked curtly. His eyes flashed anxiously at Preston’s door.

“He’s actually in now,” the assistant answered. “Do you have an appointment with him?”

“Yes. Well, no. Just tell him Agent Coleman is here to see him,” Tom replied. He waited patiently as the assistant finishing typing on her computer and picked up the phone. A moment later she hung up and gave him a surprised nod.

“You’re in luck, Agent Coleman. The Director said he can see you now. Please go on in.”

Tom thanked her as he passed, certain that luck had nothing to do with being granted his unannounced meeting. He opened the door to Preston’s office and immediately stopped. A nauseating mixture of stale cigar smoke and expensive cologne hung in the air. He glanced around at the lavishly furnished office before noticing the large antique-looking desk in the corner. There, hunched in his dark leather chair, Preston stared back at him with a grim face.

“Agent Coleman,” Preston said flatly without moving. “What brings you back to your old employer?”

Tom stopped in front of Preston’s desk and gave him a plaintive stare. He was quietly thankful the Director didn’t extend his hand. He hated the physical contact of a handshake, especially this time of year. The human hand was a fucking petri dish of cold and flu viruses.

“Information, Director,” he replied earnestly. “And also an apology.”

Preston leaned back in his chair as he motioned Tom to take a seat. “What kind of information?” he asked, an obvious tone of skepticism in his voice.