by G. K. Parks
Fifteen
There was nothing here. Boyle didn’t need a federal agent to go over the records; he needed a magician to make evidence and leads appear out of thin air. Frustrated, I shoved the materials back into the box and stomped to the coffeemaker. It was empty. Muttering about how others should follow proper etiquette, I was just pouring the water in the top when Carver came down the hallway.
“Facial recognition just got a hit on our third man from the footage we took Monday night before the shit hit the fan,” he announced.
Forgetting the coffee, I trailed him to Jablonsky’s office. Inside, Mark and Sam were reviewing the photos and information the crime scene unit found.
Without standing on ceremony, Michael barged in to spread the good news. The third man was Vlad Yenisof. The name didn’t ring any bells, and Jablonsky picked up the phone to have the analysts run a full profile for the guy. Everything felt like it was beginning to fall into place.
While we were waiting for Yenisof’s file to be composed, the rest of the diamonds Ivan paid Rubin were delivered. Carver signed off on chain of custody and took them downstairs to get cataloged and run for additional trace elements that could be pertinent to furthering our investigation. It was getting late, and Jablonsky had just ordered that I go home for the night.
As I stood at my workstation, shutting down my computer, Vlad Yenisof exited the elevator in a dark suit. Holy shit. Standing next to him was Director Kendall, and the two were having a serious discussion. Completely stunned and unsure what to do, I remained gaping as Yenisof was shown to Jablonsky’s office.
“Alex,” Michael said, and I jumped. “What are you staring at?”
“The third man,” I jerked my chin to the closed door, “he’s in there.”
“We’ve brought him in already?”
“No.” Something was off. Ten minutes later, Kendall emerged and barked at us to get back to work. Technically, I should have left, but it was like watching a train wreck. We sat down, still staring at the door until Yenisof exited and vanished behind the elevator doors. It was a scramble to beat Michael to Jablonsky’s office.
“What the hell just happened?” I asked, standing in the doorway.
“The third man works for Homeland Security,” Boyle informed us while Mark muttered expletives under his breath. “Our search pinged in their database.”
“He was a plant?” Carver asked.
“Yes.” Jablonsky slammed the drawer closed so hard the entire desk trembled. “This operation is officially over.”
Again, it felt as if I’d been punched in the gut. Everything that happened was for nothing. Carver was almost killed, and I almost lost my job because of this. This steaming pile of bullshit.
“How? We’ve got missing explosives, missing Russian gangsters, and a bag full of diamonds.” Michael was babbling, but I’m sure it was what we were all thinking. It was what I was thinking.
“We’re done,” Jablonsky growled. “Part of this job is knowing when to walk away, and we’re fucking walking. Now go home. Both of you.” There was no room for argument, and Carver and I backed out of the office.
Inside the parking garage, Michael looked at me. We weren’t satisfied with our orders. “Now what?” he asked. He was standing outside his car, holding his keys uncertainly. The right move would be to follow orders and let it go.
“Come over,” I said, getting into my car and starting the engine without giving him time to ask a question or protest.
* * *
Chinese food containers were strewn around my living room as we reconstructed all the facts we knew. Ivan and Sergei were responsible for smuggling weaponry into the United States. Ivan used Henry Rubin as his patsy and paid him handsomely in diamonds. I was sure the payment was just as illegal as the rest of the business, but the techs could worry about that detail.
Rubin was perfect. He was the business manager for Specialty Vineyard with access to the business’ finances. Since Victor Spilano was a wine collector and traveled often in pursuit of both his personal and professional love, Rubin figured he’d put all the blame on his partner. No one would have ever been the wiser if TSA hadn’t gotten a hit on the explosive residue. Compounding this was Spilano’s questionable travel itinerary, which raised yet another red flag. The only reason any part of the investigation ever came to fruition had been out of sheer luck.
“Homeland oversees all law enforcement agencies and the infrastructure. It’s all part of the new world we’ve been living in for over a decade,” Michael surmised. “You know this must be rough on Jablonsky and Boyle. They were probably used to the old way of doing things and were forced to change. At least you and I don’t know any better.”
“Clearly, we don’t know any better, or we wouldn’t be connecting the final dots to something that’s over.” I smirked at him.
“They never received the explosives,” Michael continued. “I’d wager that’s what they were searching for in the restaurant. Maybe they figured the shipment had come in and was down in the wine cellar, or Spilano located it and wanted a cut of the illegal gains.”
“Yenisof was there to make it believable. My guess is Homeland already confiscated the missing shipment. Hell, maybe they even put a stop to the international source. We could dig around in Interpol’s files to look,” I suggested but thought better of it and shook my head the instant the words left my lips.
He stared off into the distance, not focusing on anything. “We’ll never know. Will we?”
“Probably not, but we did explain almost all of it.” I let out a sigh. “Michael, it doesn’t matter if it’s this assignment or our hundredth assignment, we’ll never really know what happens. We collect evidence, statements, maybe even surveillance tapes, but it’s all supposition.”
“My god, you’re cynical and jaded already.” But he didn’t argue. Instead, he looked at his watch. “Six hours until we’re back at work. Want to pull an all-nighter like we used to at Quantico?”
“No,” I got up and stretched, listening to my bones pop, “but you can crash on the couch if you want.”
“Thanks.”
“Just remember, I sleep with a loaded gun so don’t try anything.”
He laughed. “That’s not surprising.” Pulling the extra pillow off my bed and a blanket from the linen closet, I brought them out to the couch. He had thrown the empty takeout containers into the garbage and put the leftovers in the fridge. He was amused by something, and I looked at him confused. “Y’know, it’s not like your roommate is going to come home and stop us this time.”
“Nothing happened.”
“It almost did.”
“No. It really didn’t. But if you want to keep up this crap, I will rescind the offer to let you sleep on the couch.” He pantomimed zipping his lip, and I went into my room, making a show of shutting the door.
I was asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. These long hours were starting to take their toll. Thankfully, when I woke up, Michael had already left. The blanket was folded neatly, and the coffee was brewed.
Arriving at work an hour later, Jablonsky had left the file on my desk. We all had to go over the final report. From what I read and what Michael and I pieced together the night before, our deductions seemed accurate. The only loose thread was the whereabouts of Ivan and Sergei Sarskov.
I finished the paperwork and debrief and did my best to wash my hands of everything. My first major assignment and I had shot a man, almost lost my job, and what did I have to show for it but a case that Homeland Security had taken possession of. On the bright side, Victor Spilano was cleared and I no longer had to be Alexandra Riley, fiancée of Michael Price.
Carver and Boyle were leaving tomorrow on an eight a.m. flight for Los Angeles, and Jablonsky would continue to mentor me in the fine art of being a federal agent. Hopefully, there would be no more major pitfalls or screw-ups.
Sixteen
A few days later, I stopped by Mark’s office on my way out. It was
one of the first nights I was leaving at a reasonable hour. There were no more major cases that required additional man-hours, and I was trying to take the shrink’s advice and forge some type of life outside the office. Kate and I were going out on the town tonight.
“Hey,” I knocked on the doorjamb, “I’m heading home if there was nothing else.”
“Come in and close the door.” Obeying his request, I sat down. Hopefully, I could catch Kate before she left since it looked like our plans were getting cancelled. “A guy over at Homeland told me the Sarskovs are in custody. The international arms dealing ring they were part of has been disbanded, and all the key players we know about are no longer a threat to national security.” The way he said it sounded like he was mimicking someone. “I didn’t tell you this though.”
“Tell me what?” I asked, smiling.
“Good.” He reached into his filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a glass. “Shall we drink to a job well done?”
I spun the bottle; it was fifty year old Macallan. “How the hell can you afford this on a government salary?”
“A friend of mine sent it over as a coping mechanism for the divorce.” He looked glum. “Instead, I think we should use it to celebrate.” He poured some into the glass and slid it across the desk to me. He then poured some into his coffee cup and put the bottle back into the filing cabinet. We clinked our cups and took a sip. “Parker, you have something rare. You’ve got this natural instinct about things. It’s something most agents learn, but you haven’t been here long enough for that. We’re lucky to have you.”
“Thank you,” I paused, “sir.”
Mark snorted. “When we’re drinking expensive scotch, it’s Mark.”
My glass was almost empty. “Hell of a first assignment. Do most people end up with their first major case being taken away by another agency after they have to shoot a suspect in a dark alley?” I stopped. “Jesus, I sound like a cheesy action flick.”
Mark laughed. “Let’s call this assignment zero. With any luck, your next one will be better, and that will count as the first.”
“I knew girls in high school that took a similar approach to losing their virginity. I’m not sure it works that way.”
“We’ll keep it quiet,” he insisted. “Now get out of here.”
* * *
A couple weeks later, another case presented itself. We were doing things by the book this time, so hopefully, it would all pan out without any more undercover work or another department taking over our investigation. As required, I saw Dr. Weiler a couple of times for the perfunctory and semi-hostile appointments. The verdict seemed unanimous; I was about as mentally stable as anyone else who wanted this type of career.
There was a joint task force being formed between Interpol and the OIO, and I hoped Jablonsky wasn’t going to get us roped into it. It had something to do with illegal art sales. Worst case, I might score a free trip to Europe, but for now, I was happy to be in the city.
“Have you heard?” Mark asked as I went into his office to have a requisition form signed.
“Please tell me we aren’t traveling across the globe.”
“No. Well, I don’t know. But the Director was exceptionally pleased by the work you and Agent Carver did. Despite the reprimands he cast upon Boyle and me, he thinks the four of us make a good team. He’s extended both of them a permanent position at the OIO; although, I don’t think Sam has any desire to leave Los Angeles.”
“And suddenly, I’m much more open to the possibility of travel.” He signed the form, and I went back to my desk. This was one hell of a life.
Agent Prerogative
An Alexis Parker Short
G.K. Parks
One
Stepping off the plane, I resisted the urge to kiss the tarmac like the Pope. Instead, I squinted against the too bright sun, thankful to be on solid ground. The flight from Paris back to the United States had been long and crowded. There must have been at least four infants on the plane who screamed in chorus for the last three hours. My head pounded, my stomach was unsettled, and I just wanted to go home.
“Parker,” a voice called from behind as I moved with the rest of the deplaning herd. “Parker.” I sighed and stopped walking. “Alexis,” my supervisor, Mark Jablonsky, tried again. Waiting for him to catch up, he met me in his wrinkled suit, looking about as haggard as I felt. “This is a joke, right?” He held up his cell phone.
“Of course not. What were you doing for the last eight hours?” I asked as we continued through customs, flashing our passports and federal agent credentials. It would make picking up our firearms seem less suspicious to the overzealous TSA agents.
“Sleeping.” Mark looked incredulous. “I can’t believe you spent the flight writing your report on our joint task force. Just because we’ve spent the last few months in Paris working with Interpol to bring down an art forgery ring doesn’t mean you have to hit the ground running as soon as we land. Wouldn’t you like a break?”
“I’d love one, Jablonsky.” We made it to the luggage carousel, and I grabbed my suitcase and overstuffed duffel. “That’s precisely why I spent the last few hours getting my paperwork in order.” I had sat in my cramped seat with my laptop resting on my thighs as I rehashed everything the Director would need for our debrief; all the while, Mark snored in his seat two rows behind me.
My role as special agent with the Office of International Operations required an extended overseas investigation as we assisted Interpol in identifying art forgers in Paris, worked in concert with their undercover operative, Jean-Pierre Dubois, and arrested seven different smugglers, all of which were being prosecuted in the EU before any charges would be brought against them in the US. Proof of my dedication could be found in the first degree burns on my thighs from my overheated laptop. Now that I was home, I wanted to go home and not back to the office.
“You know we still have to go through the unofficial debrief before we can call it a day,” Jablonsky warned as he led me from the airport and into the parking structure.
When we left for Paris, he had driven the two of us in his government-provided SUV. Therefore, I had no choice in the matter since my car was still at the office, and I was under orders, given that Mark was my supervisor.
“Yes, but after that, I can go home.” I smiled. “I don’t have to spend the next few hours writing my report. It’s finished.” I tried to hide the smug look but failed miserably. “That’s why you got the e-mail notification on your phone.”
“Goddamn overachiever.” He shook his head.
“Face it, I’m a genius.” He snorted and unlocked the doors so I could throw my belongings into the trunk and get inside the vehicle. “And the answer is no. I’m not helping you catch up on paperwork,” I declared.
“Stop being so insubordinate, rookie,” he teased as we headed for the freeway. “Your two years aren’t up yet. I still own your ass.”
Mark and I had a good relationship. It started out a little rocky, but he was a great mentor and an even better friend. I was twenty-six, and Mark had at least two decades on me. Sometimes, I was convinced he thought of me as a daughter. In the twenty-two months that I had gotten to know him, he finalized his third divorce and seemed as disconnected from the rest of the human race as I was. He had some friends but no spouse or children of his own. I had always been a loner with no family, few friends, and my career being my sole focus in life. Needless to say, we clicked.
All new recruits at the Office of International Operations, which was part of the FBI, had to undergo twenty weeks of training at Quantico followed by two years of supervision by an actual agent. Jablonsky must have hit the jackpot when he was assigned me. In the last two years, I had filed more paperwork than I thought possible, gone undercover to find an arms dealer, and most recently, I had spent the last few months in Paris stopping art forgers. It was a hell of a life.
The ride back to the OIO was in silence, and I appreciated it. The pounding in my
head had subsided to a dull ache, and the queasiness had abated. The only trick would be to get my internal clock back on east coast time. When the SUV came to a full stop in the underground garage, I took my bags out of the trunk and found my car keys. Unlocking my car, I put everything in the back seat, hoping to make an even faster escape as soon as possible.
“I’ll meet you upstairs in the conference room,” Mark called as he went to the elevator.
Taking a deep breath, I wanted to hug my car. I was home. Sure, Europe was great, but there was something to be said about being home. My car. My apartment. My furniture. And my bed. I let out a relieved sigh. My pillow. Grinning like an idiot, I went to the elevator and rode up to the OIO floor.
“Excuse me,” I said to a man’s back, “but that’s my desk.”
“I know.” Michael Carver, my rival from Quantico and my support on the arms dealer case, spun around in my chair, looking smug. “Welcome home, Alex.”
“You’re supposed to be in Los Angeles. You work out of the LA field office.” The jetlag must be causing hallucinations.
“I got transferred six weeks ago. Agent Sam Boyle and I are the newest additions to the OIO family.” He winked. “It’s because the Director was so impressed by the awesome job the two of us did last time.”
If I remembered correctly, Carver had almost gotten himself killed and Boyle and Jablonsky had been chewed out for letting two probationary agents call the shots, but I didn’t quibble over details. The goal was to be debriefed and go home.
“Whatever.” I opened my desk drawer and grabbed a notepad and pen. “But this is my desk.”
