62.
Tom sat up in his hospital bed and glared at his brother-in-law.
“Are you insane, Alex? Me – a terrorist? That’s fucking ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculous at all,” Alex replied as he took his hand off his holstered gun and reached into his jacket. “Here,” he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper and tossing it on the bed. “See for yourself.”
Tom picked it up and looked at Alex inquiringly.
“A copy of the confession,” Alex said, tapping on the evidence bag he was holding. “I found it pinned to your chest after I ordered my men to take you down.”
“Bullshit… I didn’t write any fucking confession note.”
“Initial analysis of the handwriting says you did.” Alex responded.
Tom started to unfold the note and then paused. “So that’s why you had your men shoot me? Because I had a note pinned to my chest?”
“No, Tom,” Alex replied, shaking his head. “You were shot because you walked out of a suspected terrorist location wearing a fucking Santa Claus costume, complete with a big bag of god-knew-what slung over your shoulder.”
Tom stared at him with a blank expression. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’ve got the Santa suit with your blood all over it sealed up in another evidence bag,” Alex replied as he pointed at the door. “Want me to go get it?”
Tom looked down at the note in his hand and shook his head.
“Read it,” Alex demanded impatiently.
Tom gave him a venomous glance before unfolding the note and starting to read. Alex watched quietly as a look of anguish grew on Tom’s face. When he was done reading, Tom slowly laid the note on the bedside table and fell back dejectedly.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Alex asked quietly. “You killed two of your fellow marines to save your own ass, then fabricated a very plausible lie for your superiors.”
Tom glanced around the hospital room, quietly admiring the white, minimalistic simplicity of the space. He imagined the cleaning staff carefully scrubbing every surface of the room, killing the endless onslaught of germs that infested it. The thought gave him a strange feeling of comfort.
“You tell me,” he replied hollowly. “You’re the fucking CIA agent.”
Alex shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. For god’s sake, even your rejection letter spelled it out and I didn’t see it.”
Tom glanced over at him. “See what?”
“Your illness, Tom,” Alex replied solemnly, tapping his index finger against his temple. “When you got rejected by the CIA, something up here snapped. That’s when this all started. You didn’t just happen to walk into a bar where an anonymous man was sending letters and photos to the bartender. Those letters and photos came from you, didn’t they?”
Tom looked at him curiously for a moment before laughing. “Fuck you, Alex.”
“You created a fictitious character, took pictures of someone wearing a Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirt, linked his locations and actions to some random Petronus deaths, and boom… instant terrorist. I haven’t had a chance to look into it yet, but I assume you stole the Kaliningrad tip from a Homeland Security colleague in order to complete the illusion. Before you knew it, you had a story with just the right blend of legitimate field intel and complete bullshit. Then you packaged it up and sold it to the last person on earth who should have believed you – me.” Alex paused and shook his head. “You did a helluva good job convincing me it was real, Tom. Of course, I don’t have all the details yet. Like the identity of that dumb,
t-shirt wearing bastard you sent the care package to in Amsterdam, or how he managed to blow himself up in the hotel room. But I can guarantee you one thing – you’ll be the one that hangs for it, not me.”
Alex turned and began slowly pacing the floor.
“Two dead bodies in Amsterdam, Tom,” he said bitterly. “And for what? To prove you were worthy of the CIA? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why your elaborate little plan seemed to fall apart when I told you there was no place for you in our agency. Most people would have given up at that point, but not you. You did exactly what any obsessive psychopath would do – you brought your dead terrorist back to life and dangled him in front of Jack Preston and Richard Connolly.”
Alex glanced over at Tom with a crooked smile. “And who better to dangle him in front of? Those dumb sons of bitches were practically falling on top of each other to take a victory from the CIA. And what did they end up with?” he asked rhetorically, holding up two fingers. “Two more dead bodies, including one of your fellow ICE agents.” He stopped pacing and looked coldly at Tom. “By the way, how would you describe your relationship with Agent Martin, Tom?”