Don't Order Dog_ 1(131)
I’m too late he thought as he ripped the newspaper from the window and peered out at the balcony. A large black plastic bag sat in the corner, filled to the top with what appeared to be trash. Rick opened the door and gingerly grabbed the bag, tossing it inside before kicking it over with his shoe and scattering the contents across the floor. He pulled a pen from his pocket and began carefully poking through the rubbish, wincing at the smell. Nearly all of the items seemed to fall into two categories – empty packs of cigarettes, mostly Camel Lights, and leftover containers of street-bought food. A few pages of a newspaper were also mixed in, printed in unintelligible Chinese. He studied them closely for a date but couldn’t find anything even remotely decipherable.
After five minutes of fruitlessly picking through the trash, Rick stood up in frustration. He walked over and picked up the empty trash bag and roughly snapped it in the air to see if anything else was left inside. As he did, a flat, white-framed object flew out and twirled gently in the air before settling face-down on the floor.
He bent down to examine it.
Looking closer, Rick realized it was a Polaroid photograph like the ones his parents took when he was a kid. He flipped it over with his pen and gazed at the smiling face of a middle-aged Chinese man dressed in a white lab coat. The man’s dark eyes stared out with intelligence as he stood in a large room surrounded by scientific-looking instruments. Along the bottom edge of the photo, the number “1556” was written in heavy black ink. Rick picked up the Polaroid and studied it curiously until the meaning of the photo and number suddenly struck him.
This man is the target. He’s in apartment 1556.
I’m in the wrong goddamn apartment.
He stuffed the Polaroid into his pocket and raced to the front door of the apartment. He started to open the door and then paused, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the “gift” the Director had given him before leaving for Amsterdam – a small, 22-caliber pistol. Until that morning, it had travelled in disassembled pieces, all of them concealed within various areas of his laptop, cellphone and backpack. He stared down at the ugly, dull-gray plastic weapon that looked more like a child’s toy than something that could deliver lethal power. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he pulled the slide back and checked to make sure the gun was loaded. Satisfied, he tucked it back into his pocket and readied himself by the entryway. As he grabbed the door to leave, Preston’s voice sounded once again in his head.
For better or worse, the fate of this investigation once again rests in your hands…
Rick shook his head dismissively as he opened the door. The cold, chemical-laced air of the factories filled his lungs as he peered down the deserted corridor. This is it he thought as he stepped cautiously out into the gray morning light. No more searching. No more instructions. He closed the door and focused his eyes on the dark entryway of apartment 1556 several doors down. A sudden surge of energy washed over him as he marched forward. He thought of the phone call he’d make to Director Preston when this was over. With any luck, he’d be calling with the confident voice of a freshly minted hero.
∞
“Agent Coleman, the Director is in a meeting right now, but I’ll be sure to–”
“You don’t understand!” Tom screamed into his cell phone at Preston’s assistant as he sped back towards the ICE offices. “I need to speak to the Director now! Tell him it’s Agent Coleman. Tell him I have information that requires his immediate attention!”
The assistant exhaled haughtily. “One moment, Agent Coleman.”
A few seconds later, the Director’s low voice broke the silence.
“What have you got?” he asked curtly.
“Director, I’ve been digging a little deeper into the letters, and I believe I’ve found something. It’s not good. Jesus–” Tom dropped the phone and gripped the steering wheel with both hands as the car suddenly began sliding on the icy pavement towards an oncoming vehicle. The Director’s voice shouted from the phone on the seat next to him as he nudged the car back into the lane.
“Agent Coleman? Hello? What the hell’s going on?”
Tom held his vice-like grip on the wheel as the oncoming vehicle miraculously slipped past him by just inches. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the phone off the seat. “I’m on my way to the office, sir, and I have the last letter with me – the one that just arrived yesterday. As I said, I think I’ve found something. A message in the letter.”
“What message?” the Director demanded.