Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  “No!” Lyndsey reached out and grabbed Perry by the shoulders. “No, Perry. I just…I don’t like seeing you waste away, killing yourself. And it kills me to hear you say cynical, empty things, like you’ve completely given up.”

  The burning resentment lingered, but Perry knew Lyndsey truly cared and had his best interest at heart. In fact, Lyndsey was one of the most genuine people he knew. Somehow, she had kept the rigors of the job—including its requirement that its agents live complete and total lies on a regular basis—from taking over her girl-next-door character and personality. Not that she hadn’t faced her own hardships. This knowledge helped blunt Perry’s anger. Lyndsey knew what heartbreak felt like.

  “I know, Lynds. And I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. I’m dealing with it. In my own way and on my own time. Okay?”

  The look on Lyndsey’s face suggested she had grave doubts concerning Perry’s claim, but the resignation in her eyes meant she also understood that pursuing the issue now would be ineffective and perhaps even detrimental. Instead, she became business-like and brisk.

  “So, listen, I don’t have all the details. Moore will discuss them with you directly when you get home and call him in…” she glanced at her watch, “…forty-five minutes. But I can tell you this much: we’ve lost an operative and her diplomat husband.”

  “Amanda and Bart?” Perry asked without hesitation. Perry’s mind, no matter how diminished he might appear, never seemed to misfire.

  Lyndsey nodded.

  “A missing persons job. Not usually my area of operation. And it’s—”

  “In Paris. Yes. I know.”

  Perry looked at the ground and walked a little faster.

  Speeding up to keep pace with him, Lyndsey vented her frustration once again. “Dammit, Perry! I get it. It’s the last place you and Trina were together before she flew home and you flew to Bucharest. But let’s face it, there are fewer and fewer places in the world that don’t hold a memory of some personal tragedy for any of us. You most of all.”

  “Shut up,” he said sounding like a sullen ten-year-old, but immediately followed up with, “So what else is going on? Two people go dark, Moore calls you or Burke, not me.”

  “Moore sent me to roust you, not to brief you, so again, I don’t know.”

  They’d come to an empty bench and Perry sat down hard, still looking only at the ground. Lyndsey sat next to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Look, if nothing else it will give you something to focus on for a while.”

  “I’ll be in Paris, Lynds. What do you think I’m going to be focused on?”

  “On the damn job! Don’t screw with me, Perry. When the hammer gets pulled back, you’re the most focused person I know. Now go move your car before Paco has it towed, then call Moore.”

  After a long minute, Perry lifted his eyes from the pavement and let out a long sigh. “Alright. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “I’ll take the subway. Way safer than riding with you.”

  Despite his mood, Perry grinned at the snide remark.

  Lyndsey stood up and began to walk away. He remained seated until she’d vanished into the mass of people milling about the park, then put his face in his hands. The image of Trina in front of the Eiffel Tower, posing for the obligatory Paris tourist picture—the very picture that now hung on his refrigerator—right before they kissed and headed off in two different cabs, burned in his memory. It was the last time he’d seen her alive.

  With a growl, he rubbed his face violently and shot up from the bench. Looking at his watch, he saw there was now about twenty minutes until Moore was expecting his call. Moore was a little weird, but he wasn’t unnecessarily cruel and he cared about his people. If he thought he needed Eagle in Paris to hunt down a pair of MIA’s, there had to be a damn good reason.

  3

  Perry walked from his living room to the roof of the building, a lush garden that had no business existing this high in the sky above New York City. Under a canopy sat an outdoor recliner, brown metal with rust colored cushions and next to the chair was an innocent looking Lucite pedestal. A bottle of gin, empty and cold, lay on its side atop the transparent rectangle. Perry knocked it off, then slid his hand across the side of the pedestal facing the chair—twice left to right, once downward, once right to left. With a click a door popped open. Defying logic and observation, it revealed a secure phone. He picked up the receiver and punched the “1” key.

  “Eagle,” came Moore’s staccato voice after a single ring.

  “Sir,” Perry replied.

  “I know Venus couldn’t tell you much.”

  “Only that we had two down. And that it’s Paris.”

  “Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  “A little confused, sir. MIA? Not usually what you ask me to do.”

  “Our agent and her husband are probably dead.” Moore sounded cool and professional, but Perry detected a hint of strain in his voice. Moore did not like to lose his people. “They are not the objective. Should you locate one or both, so much the better, but it is the package Pickering was carrying that you’re looking for.”

  “Package?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Flat on my ass,” Perry said, his interest level considerably increased.

  “Bart had been working with a militia group placed to deal with a Scorpion cell, a cell partnering with some true believers in a particularly unfriendly spot in the Middle East.”

  “Are there any spots in that theater that are friendly?”

  The question elicited a double “ha” chuckle, which from Moore indicated a bout of hysterical laughter. “Fewer and fewer.”

  “The package, then?”

  “Inside a titanium clutch with no obvious means of entry were an arming key and activation codes for a moderately powerful nuke.”

  “Eww,” said Perry.

  “Just so. The device, we are 90% positive, is in France, probably Paris, and was most likely being prepped for delivery to the aforementioned unfriendly spot. It was to have been a rather emphatic statement, although the target was remote, with little chance of excessive collateral. If all went well no Western fingerprints would have been detected.”

  “Was being prepped?”

  “Yes. We’ve picked up some chatter indicating that Scorpion, who we’re quite sure are behind the abductions, had already gotten their hands on the nuke when Bart was taken, and with the key and codes, might prefer to do something a little more…eye-catching.”

  Perry let out a low whistle. “I don’t care much for the sound of that.”

  “If you did, you’d be a monster. Which leads us to why I wanted to speak to you. There is a tendency, when one wishes to detonate a nuclear device in a major metropolitan area, to be unconcerned with the welfare of anyone getting in their way.”

  “Which is right in my wheelhouse.”

  “Always good with a phrase, Eagle. The specifics, then. JFK to Paris, leaving this evening, 7:00 pm, arrive in Paris 8:30 am. Room booked under the name Jarred Parker at 1 Rue Augereau.”

  Perry closed his eyes tightly and covered them with his left hand. “Jesus...”

  “Problem, Eagle?”

  “That’s the Hôtel de Londres.”

  Moore coughed. “Your knowledge of foreign lodging accommodations is impressive, but I fail to see—”

  “That’s where we stayed. You’re killing me, sir.”

  “Very possibly. That’s why it’s your assignment. You have a plane to catch in a few hours. You may want to shower.”

  The line went dead.

  Perry sat on the terrace for ten minutes, the phone still to his ear, though he knew Moore, who never said goodbye when ending a call, was long gone. Finally, he placed the receiver back on the base and closed the door on the pedestal, recreating the illusion of transparency once more. He stood and went to the kitchen. Removing the magnet, he took the picture of Trina in his hands, staring at it. He walked numbly to
his bedroom and pulled his ready bag from under the bed. He opened it, gently placed the photo inside, then walked into his bathroom, where he turned the shower on as hot as it would go. As the room filled with steam, he stripped out of the clothes he’d been wearing for two—maybe three—days and stepped into the water, which streamed powerfully out of the dual shower heads. The pain from the scalding water was instantaneous—and gratifying. He stood still until it became unbearable then turned it as cold as it would go. The new suffering lasted even longer. Finally, he adjusted the dial, found a middle temperature, and washed away the last trace of his weekend binge.

  “Come on, Beth. You have to go away this week? You can’t watch Fleming for a few days?” Perry said. He was talking to the seventeen-year-old girl on the fourteenth floor of his building, the only person he trusted Fleming with, and who was normally able to step in on short notice.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Drake,” she said, using the name he went by in his building. “I’ve been planning this vacation for weeks. It’s the end of summer break. School starts next Wednesday. My friends and I are driving to Vermont.”

  “Vermont! You don’t want to go there. For Chrissakes, Beth. There’s nothing in Vermont but trees.”

  “Ben and Jerry’s and the teddy bear place,” she said, with the impatience only teenage girls can pull off with such perfection.

  “You know, I’ve heard rumors about what Ben and Jerry do to teddy bears.”

  “Sorry. Mr. D. Not even one of your wild stories can change my mind.”

  “Fine. I hope you have a terrible time.”

  “Oh, we will. Wait, what?”

  “Disconnect!” Perry barked, ordering the computerized phone to cut the call. “Dial Specjemen.” The speakers in each of the four corners of his bedroom began ringing as the apartment’s artificial intelligence connected to Goren Specjemen, SpyCo’s “details expert.”

  “Tack to me, Eegull,” said a crisp, Eastern-European voice, the accent comically converting the word “talk.”

  “Speck, how many hoops do I have to jump through to get a dog into France?”

  “Driving or flying?”

  “Flying tonight.”

  “Is chipped?”

  “And his shots are all up to date.”

  “You have all documentation?”

  “I practically have a passport for him.”

  “France not too bad. Show papers and a hundred Euro note.”

  “What’s that, administrative fee?”

  “Yes, fee. Or bribe. Call what you like.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Speck. Want anything from Paris?”

  “French whore.”

  “Barrel of laughs, Speck. Disconnect.”

  The phone went quiet and Perry walked to one of the three closets in his bedroom. He slid it open and pulled out the dog carrier. It was twice the size of his go-bag. Fleming, who had been lounging disinterestedly at the base of Perry’s bed, let out a interrogative sounding yip and started toward the door.

  “Hold it, wise guy,” Perry said, grabbing his collar. “I know you hate this thing, but I’m in a bind. Besides, just because I can’t bring Speck back a hooker doesn’t mean you won’t meet some nicely perfumed and coiffed poodle. You might get lucky.”

  The prospect of romance seemed to do nothing for Fleming’s opinion of the trip. He whined miserably as Perry pushed him into the carrier and secured the door. He grabbed a file from his nightstand drawer and looked over the contents quickly. All Fleming’s pertinent paperwork was in place and in order. He slid it into the go bag, and said, “Taxi.” Rather than calling a taxi service, the computer sent a signal to an agency garage to dispatch a transport to Perry’s building, and fifteen minutes later he and Fleming were speeding toward JFK.

  The company car looked exactly like a yellow New York cab, except it was a little more heavily armored than the standard taxi, and the glass was bulletproof. The driver handed Perry all his necessary papers, including a worn-looking passport with Jarred Parker’s name under Perry’s picture. As he did every time he sat in one of these vehicles, Perry wondered if this was the ride that would test those extra safety features. Not that he was concerned. Except for Fleming and the driver, there was no one in the car he particularly cared about.

  4

  TSA at Kennedy gave Perry more trouble about the dog than it sounded like he was going to have in Paris. Once they were satisfied Fleming was not a bomb, they prepared to take him to pressurized cargo. Perry bent down and looked into the carrier. Fleming’s face seemed sadder than usual.

  “Don’t fret, pal. You’ll be strutting your stuff in Paris before you know it.”

  Fleming answered with an unconvinced grunt as a baggage handler took him away.

  With forty minutes until the plane would start boarding, Perry headed to the VIP lounge to which his first-class ticket gained him entry. He ordered a vodka martini, but resisted the urge to use Fleming’s dog food joke on the bartender.

  He’d grown up worshiping James Bond, although he’d never anticipated the turns his life would take, eventually landing him in a career with many parallels to the fictional man from Mi6. But this was no movie, no cheap spy novel. There was never any guarantee the mission would end with a last-minute rescue, Perry escaping by the skin of his teeth. He’d been in far fewer gunfights than James Bond as well. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been more than a little killing done over the six years since he’d been recruited into SpyCo from the NYPD, which he’d joined on October 1, 2001—a sufficient amount of time after the attacks to respectfully mourn his parents before dropping out of Columbia Law and finding a way to honor the thousands lost three weeks prior. Yes, there’d been plenty of killing, but whenever possible Perry preferred to use his bare hands. Guns, in his mind, were better suited to scaring punks away from his sports car. Oh, they had plenty of other uses, and he’d relied on them to get him out of a few jams. But if there was a gun in Perry’s hand, he was far more likely to pistol whip his target than shoot him. Unless there was a time crunch. If so, pulling the trigger wasn’t really a problem either. In any case, he wasn’t carrying one now. There would be plenty of firepower waiting for him at the hotel, and getting a dog through airport security was all the challenge he’d been up for tonight.

  After downing the drink, he glanced at his watch and saw only ten minutes had passed, so he caught the bartender’s eye once more. The mixologist was a balding man with a young face and a pin on his lapel that identified him as “Ryan.” Although Perry couldn’t attest to his skill at the preparation of any other drinks, he quickly learned Ryan made a mean martini. He nursed the second drink a little longer, deciding, although he’d probably prefer to skip the flight altogether and drain Ryan’s vodka supply, he had a difficult job ahead of him. He stared at the three olives drowning in the drink and realized that by “difficult job” he meant surviving the flight. Seven and a half hours trapped in a flying tube was plenty of time for the mind to do horrible things to its owner. If he managed to conquer that, there remained the simple fact he would be in Paris—at the very hotel he’d spent his honeymoon.

  After a few more minutes, he finished the second drink and slid a pair of twenty-dollar bills across the bar.

  “Ryan, those were some damn fine martinis.”

  The bartender winked. “Shaken, not stirred.”

  Perry smiled at the coincidence, and walked toward his gate.

  Right away, he began to feel uneasy. Unlike the mental discomfort he felt most every day, this was professional unease. Twice as he walked through the vast terminal he had looked casually to his left and seen the same face. Whereas most people would not be able to pick the same face twice out of the milling airport crowd, Perry was trained to do just that, so when he looked a third time and saw the crewcut blond closing the distance, his instincts screamed an alarm.

  Perry glanced at his watch and saw the plane was still ten minutes from the first call for boarding, so he slipped into the nearest men’s
room and occupied an empty stall. He closed the door, but did not lock it, and stood on the toilet, bending over so as not to let his head show.

  The restroom door swung open. Peering through the crack of the stall door, Perry saw the Dolph Lundgren clone step inside, the man’s black tee seemingly painted onto his torso. For as busy as the terminal was, there had been only one other man in the room, and Dolph waited until he left, then began pushing open the stalls, making his way down toward Perry, who quietly moved as far back from the front as he could and lifted his foot.

  A moment later, the man reached his hiding place. As soon as the door opened about a foot, Perry kicked it for all he was worth, sending the man reeling backward. A clanking sound indicated the jolt had also dislodged something metallic from his hand—Perry had no doubt what that might be. Apparently, his pursuer had fewer qualms about getting a handgun through security.

  Before Dolph could recover, Perry was behind him, a choke hold firmly locked. The man was about four inches taller and a solid twenty pounds heavier than Perry, and was every bit as strong as he looked, but even the biggest, toughest man on the planet needs oxygen, and in a matter of seconds he was on his knees, his face turning a very unhealthy shade of blue.

  “Talk,” Perry hissed into his ear.

  The man, who had stopped struggling, made a weak motion with his harm, indicating he couldn’t talk even if he wanted to. Perry loosened the hold slightly. The man’s gun was accessible now that they were cozy on the floor. Perry grabbed it and pushed the muzzle hard into Dolph’s temple. “I said talk.”

  The man gasped for a moment, then managed to say, “Bite me.”

  A relatively light tap on the brow with the revolver opened a satisfying cut, sending a trickle of blood into Dolph’s eye.

  Perry groaned. “If I wanted a comedian the clubs in this town are full of them. Now tell me why you’re following me and maybe you’ll live to annoy someone else.”

  “I don’t like your shoes,” the man replied.