It was brilliant. Tom didn’t need to solve the case, or even lead the investigation. He simply needed to spoon-feed the right dose of information to the agency that should be investigating the matter in the first place – the CIA. Of course, if he happened to get noticed for his incredible investigative skills along the way, it certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances of getting back into the agency’s good graces.
Either way, he had nothing to lose.
Tom was still smiling to himself as he shut down his laptop and carefully wiped down his desk with disinfectant. I’m not such a bad strategist after all he thought as he flicked off the lights and shut the heavy metal door behind him. He decided a few drinks were in order, and whistled happily as he strolled out of the empty Homeland Security offices and into the cold Flagstaff evening.
23.
“I thought Venezuela was crazy, but this one takes the cake.”
Tall Tommy sat in the sparse cabin of the parked delivery truck and blew quietly on his mug of coffee. Sitting next to him in the driver’s seat and wearing the same crimson-red uniform as his colleague, Dublin shook his head incredulously.
“Yer feckin’ eh right it takes the cake,” he responded with a dour expression. “This is a goddamn suicide mission.”
Both men stared solemnly out the windshield of the Red Apple Vending truck, its sides painted in blocky, bright-red Russian, as the pewter-gray morning sky slowly brightened. Across the alley from where they were parked stood a long, windowless two-story brick building flanked by a high steel fence. Like most of the buildings in the old Pregolsky industrial park, the drab building sat unmarked and inconspicuous. The two men poured more coffee from a large thermos and waited patiently.
“There,” Tall Tommy said a few minutes later, pointing with his coffee cup at an approaching van. “That one’s going in.”
They watched closely as the van turned into the building’s service entryway and braked roughly before the gate. The driver rolled down his window and yelled into the small metal intercom beside him, slapping his hand impatiently until the gate opened with a loud metallic groan. The van then sped quickly past the entryway, turning and racing along the long front façade before stopping abruptly at a large gray service door scarred with rust.
“Why is everyone in Russia always in such a damn hurry?” Tall Tommy asked nonchalantly as he watched the driver of the van jump from the cab and quickly walk to the door. Just as he reached it, a short, stocky man with a thick mustache peered out from behind the door and nodded.
“Russians are not unlike us Irish,” Dublin replied with a sympathetic grin, “we find work to be an unwanted distraction from our true passion, which of course is drinkin’ ourselves into oblivion.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”
The two men watched as the driver unloaded several boxes onto a handcart before disappearing into the building. “Okay, I think we have our entry point,” Tall Tommy remarked flatly.
“Dah,” Dublin replied.
Tall Tommy glanced over at his colleague. “I hope to god you know more Russian than that, Dub. Otherwise we’re fucked.”
Dublin grunted humorlessly as he drank his coffee.
A few minutes later, the driver reappeared at the service door with the mustached man and exchanged a few quick words before climbing back into the van and driving off. The mustached man glanced around quickly before slipping back into the dark interior and shutting the large steel door. Tall Tommy nodded at Dublin.
“Okay, that’s our cue. Are you ready to impersonate an angry, half-drunk Russian? It shouldn’t be too hard considering you’re already an angry, half-drunk Irishman.”
Dublin smiled back at him. “Spasiba, dolboeb.”
“What the hell did that mean?”
“Thanks, fuckhead.”
“Now see, that’s more like it!” Tall Tommy said with a wide grin as he punched his colleague in the shoulder. “I feel better already. Now let’s go make some magic!”
Dublin steered the delivery truck onto the street and accelerated towards the entry gate a few hundred meters ahead. “Just remember,” he said, his normal Irish accent now replaced with heavy Russian. “You’re my Swedish-born co-worker. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit there and look like the fucking Aryan poster-child that you are.”
“A mute Swede. Got it,” Tall Tommy replied as he adjusted the Red Apple Vending cap on his head.
Dublin turned the truck into the service entry and stopped next to the gate. A cold blast of Baltic Sea air blew into the cab as he rolled down the window. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag before slowly leaning his head out.