Endangered Species: PART 1

by John Wayne Falbey

  All of the other Bureau agents in the field office drove newer model vehicles, mostly Impalas. Wojakowski drove a very well equipped Suburban. Christie’s Crown Vic had been destined for the junkyard when Wojakowski learned he was being assigned to her office. She rerouted the paperwork and saw to it that the car was assigned to him. He chalked it up to one more strike in favor of the Polish Viper.

  He didn’t usually go to work this early, but Christie was running away from a situation, and he knew it. It was ironic, he thought, that he was choosing to go to the office over something else. He was opting for something he hated over something that scared him. He saw the sign for Exit 233, Alameda Boulevard NE, and glanced to his right. A short distance to the west was Balloon Fiesta Park, site of the city’s renowned annual International Balloon Fiesta. He had been in Albuquerque for almost six months, yet had never visited the popular site. The truth was, he knew, hot air balloons terrified him. It seemed there always were news articles about them crashing and burning and killing the occupants.

  Airplanes were a different matter. They had wings and engines to propel them. More importantly, they had devices to control direction and speed. Balloons, however, had none of those. To him, they were helpless objects blown wherever the wind took them, and dependent on a limited fuel supply to create the hot air that kept them aloft. And where they came down often wasn’t a matter of choice. There were dangerous objects, like power lines, that spelled certain tragedy. No, he reminded himself, hot air balloons weren’t for him.

  Neither was the situation that had led him to flee his own apartment earlier that morning. Shortly after arriving in Albuquerque, he had found the small studio apartment in Bernalillo, just over the line in Sandoval County about seventeen miles north of the office. It was the perfect blend; not too far for commuting purposes, but not too near either. He didn’t particularly like the place. It was in a large apartment complex filled with young families with noisy kids, but it was cheap and he could afford it with what he netted from his salary after alimony and child support deductions. Although it was on the east bank of the Rio Grande, all he could view from his low rent studio was a section of parking lot.

  Given where he was in his life at the moment, Christie didn’t socialize much, and never had guests over. The place was too small and he wasn’t much of a housekeeper. That was why what had happened this morning was so shocking to him.

  He woke up, as usual, about five o’clock. This time, however, he had a very bad taste in his mouth, a queasy stomach and a mild to medium headache. His first thought was that he had a fast moving stomach virus. Then he was aware of the bare leg resting firmly against his left thigh. He was still half asleep and his thoughts were foggy. Was he with Deborah? Had the divorce been a bad dream? Or was he dreaming now? The room was dark, but light from the parking lot lamps intruded around the edges of the drawn shades. Christie turned his aching head slowly. He knew now that he really was awake. He wasn’t dreaming. In the weak light, he could distinguish a woman lying next to him. Tousled mane of thick, dark hair. Olive complexion. Naked. Sound asleep and snoring lightly. He realized he was naked too.

  He rolled his head back and stared through the darkness at the popcorn-plastered ceiling above. Slowly the memories began to emerge through the fog. Tom Burkhardt had encouraged Camilla Ramirez to call Christie and invite him for a drink. He’d been so focused on Whelan that he was caught completely by surprise and couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. Ramirez had been savvy enough to know how to handle a skittish man. She’d suggesting meeting somewhere rather than offering to pick him up or having him come to her house. At a loss for words, and reluctantly, Christie had agreed. He also made a mental note to give Burkhardt hell the next time he saw him. I’m a grown man, and if I want a date, I could find one on my own. I don’t need a damn matchmaker. What was the word his Jewish friends used? He tried to remember. Yenta? Yente? One was the male term, the other female. His head started to pound worse. He remembered meeting Ramirez at the Prairie Star restaurant. It had been her choice, and it turned out to be a very nice place. It was in an old adobe house and surrounded by a golf course. The place was located on a ridge that rose gently to the west of the Rio Grande. The view, he remembered had been wonderful; darkness of the desert at night, the lights of Bernalillo and the traffic on I-25 a few miles away, and rising above it all, the rugged, moonlit spine of the Sandia Mountains.

  They sat in the bar area and had a couple of drinks. She persuaded him to try tequila. It had been a long time since Christie had drunk the stuff. He remembered it from his college days; cheap and harsh. But Ramirez knew her tequilas and encouraged him to try an añejo distilled from the blue agave plants in the highlands of the Mexican state of Jalisco. It was surprisingly sweet and mellow. It went down easily. Too easily.

  The Prairie Star, what he could remember of it, had a very genuine Southwestern atmosphere. Vestiges of the original flat-roofed, earthen structure added just the right touch of ambiance; a kiva fireplace and the round wooden beams or vigas overlain with the smaller latillas that supported the ceiling. There were nichos in the stuccoed walls containing santos, small wood carved statues. Small oil paintings of saints on wood or metal, known as retablos, and the ubiquitous strings of red peppers, or ristas, also were hung along the walls. Christie began to relax and actually enjoy himself for the first time in a very long while. He didn’t want the occasion to end, so, judgment impaired by the tequila, he offered to buy her dinner. Over an excellent meal and more tequila, he noticed how easy she was to talk to. And Camilla Ramirez was very pretty. She had smooth skin and even features. The dress she had chosen for the evening enhanced her natural beauty. The low cut neckline revealed deep cleavage, and the high hemline showed off her remarkably well-shaped legs. There was a certain shyness about her, yet at the same time she seemed open and at ease. He liked her calm demeanor. It seemed like a long time since anything in his life had proceeded smoothly. He found himself enjoying the situation so much that he invited her to return to the lounge area for a nightcap. It turned out to be more than one.

  Later, as they were leaving the bar and walking out into the chill of the desert evening, she nestled close to him. Using the tequila as an excuse, she suggested that she’d had too much too drink to drive back to her place in Albuquerque. Drunkenly gallant, Christie asked her to stay at his apartment. He offered to sleep on the couch, giving her the Murphy bed. When they got home, one thing quickly led to another. Later, as Christie lay there beside her in the darkness, he felt a rush of feelings; not all of them negative. He knew for certain that he wasn’t ready for a relationship. Not until after he had taken care of Whelan. But there were two main differences now. He could actually see a life beyond that payback. And, to his very great relief, he didn’t suffer from erectile dysfunction. That was a fear that had haunted him ever since his marriage had fallen apart.

  But that comfort didn’t solve his immediate problem. How to deal with Camilla Ramirez? What were her expectations now? Would she think they were an “item”? He recalled snippets of locker room conversation from his youth. It had been a commonly accepted premise that women could talk a good game of free and easy, but once you bedded them, they often became territorial, possessive. He and his youthful buddies had opined that it was as if, having done the dirty deed, a girl’s rationalization of the act required some form of commitment from the guy who had bedded her. They viewed it as a woman’s way of trapping a man into a relationship that was designed to lead to marriage. He thought that probably sounded an awful lot like male chauvinism in today’s world. On the other hand, Deborah had been his first real girlfriend and she had been the one to press for marriage. Maybe there was something to that theory after all.

  That was the thought that frightened Christie. It was what drove him to slip quietly from the Murphy bed, dress hurriedly, and sneak out to his car. He left a brief note on the tiny kitchen counter. He really didn’t know what to tell her. Ultimately, the note sim
ply said, “I’ll call you later”.

  * * *

  The angry blaring of a car horn snatched Christie from his reverie. He had drifted absentmindedly into the outside lane on the Interstate and the other driver responded loud and long. Christie glanced at the other driver through the Crown Vic’s side window. It was a young, blonde woman. She was giving him the finger. He actually was relieved at the incident. He’d been about to miss the off ramp at the exit for Montgomery Boulevard. He turned left at the end of the ramp and proceeded east on Montgomery.

  His first stop was a Jack in the Box. It was close to his office and easy to access. That was about the only reason he could think of for eating there. And he ate there almost every day, sometimes all three meals. Today, he ordered the same thing he had for breakfast every day, black coffee and a Breakfast Waffle Sandwich. Fried egg, American cheese, and sausage patty layered between two small waffle slices. When it came to his stomach problems, the meal was probably a wash. The egg and cheese, although fried, basically were neutral. But the sausage definitely didn’t help matters. That’s where he hoped the waffle slices played a key role. It seemed logical to him that they would act like sponges, soaking up stomach acid. Just to be safe, he popped three Rolaids in his mouth.

  After picking up his meal, Christie swung a U-turn at the intersection with San Mateo Boulevard and stopped at the Walgreens in Montgomery Plaza. He bought a toothbrush, safety razor, and travel size toothpaste and shaving cream. He really wanted a shower, but would have to make do with a sink in a men’s room at the office. He also bought a disposable cell phone, a Nokia, and $100 of minutes through T-Mobile.

  Given the early hour, he easily was the first Bureau employee to arrive that morning. After freshening up, he settled into his office, closed the door and fired up his computer. Using Google Earth, he surfed to the Dingle Peninsula in Southwestern Ireland. He had done this several times since the online discussion with his friend at INTERPOL Washington. He had learned that the peninsula was thirty-two miles long by twelve at its widest point. According to online sources, it had a population of 10,000 people. He recognized that it was a lot of territory to cover and a lot of people to sift through, but he was determined to do it. No matter how long it took.

  At nine o’clock, he made it a point to stick his head in Wojakowski’s office and discuss some trivial matter. He wanted her to think he was on the job. A few minutes later, he left the building and strolled around the parking lot to a point opposite the SAC’s office. He stepped under an overhang that provided sheltered parking to the building’s bigwigs and pulled out his new cell phone. Christie tapped in a local number he had memorized and waited for an answer at the other end.

  After three rings, a woman’s voice said, “Travel Services, Margaret speaking. How may I help you?” She sounded annoyingly affected to Christie.

  “I’m interested in traveling to Ireland.”

  “Oh, it is absolutely gorgeous this time of year.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s cold and it’s rainy.”

  There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line. Somewhat stiffly Margaret said, “Excuse me. I assumed you wanted to travel in the very near future.”

  “I do, and it’s cold and it’s rainy.” He paused momentarily then said, “It’s always cold and rainy in Ireland.”

  The tone of the woman’s response was noticeably frostier. “I see. Well then, when are you planning to fly?”

  “What’s the cheapest day to fly? I don’t want to spend a fortune.”

  Another pause. The agent dealt with a lot of different personalities in her business. She swiftly categorized Christie a rude and miserly. She sighed audibly and said, “I take it your plans are somewhat flexible?”

  “No. I just don’t want to spend more money than I have to.”

  “Well, Tuesdays generally are considered to be the most economical days to fly.”

  “That’s fine,” Christie said. “Book me a one-way ticket to Ireland next Tuesday.”

  “Do you know your return date?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Alright.” She paused for a few moments. Christie assumed she was searching her computer for airfares. After a short while, Margaret said, “You’re in luck. I’ve found a fare that connects with Aer Lingus in New York. It departs Albuquerque at midnight and arrives in Dublin at about five in the morning.”

  “That’s a pretty quick flight.”

  “Not really.” Margaret’s voice had the tone of someone who thought she was speaking to a nitwit. “The layover in New York is almost twelve hours. Total time is over twenty-two hours.”

  Christie didn’t like that. “Isn’t there a direct flight?”

  “Not from Albuquerque.” Again, there was a sound of exasperation in her voice, like that of someone who believed she was having to explain the obvious to a fool. “There are other flights available that are shorter, but they involve multiple connections and cost considerably more.”

  He thought about his options for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll take the flight you mentioned first.”

  Margaret spent several minutes getting his information and booking the passage. Eventually, she said, “That should take care of the flight. Will you need ground transportation or lodging in Dublin?”

  “No,” he said quickly. Maybe too quickly. He thought about the kind of impression he might be making on the travel agent in an era of terrorism. “I’m staying with friends. They’ll take care of all that.” He knew it would have been simpler to let the agent make all of his travel arrangements including a rental car and a place to stay, but he didn’t want to leave such an easy trail to follow.

  The agent finished the flight arrangements and Christie pressed the red key to disconnect the call. He dropped the cell phone in a trouser pocket and went back to his office. As he passed through the reception area, an attractive young lady on the desk sweetly said, “Excuse me, Agent Christie, you had two calls while you were away from your desk. They came through the main switchboard and didn’t leave any messages.” With a big smile, she handed him a single slip of paper.

  He looked at her with a mildly confused expression. “Didn’t you say there were two calls?”

  The big smile never left her face, as if she were inexplicably delighted just to have a relatively low-paying job in the backwater outpost of a government bureaucracy. “Yes, there were two, but only one caller left a number. It was a female caller. The other was a man, but he said he’d call again later.”

  “Do you have any information regarding the other call?”

  “Only that the number had a 33 prefix. I copied it from my phone’s screen.”

  The smile might be a little overdone, Christie thought, but the girl seemed to be good at her job. Christie looked at the slip of paper as he walked to his office. If the calls had been made directly to his line, the screen on his desk set would have notified him of the calls. He then could have viewed them by accessing the Missed Calls list on his phone.

  He didn’t recognize the local number. As for the other one, he thought the prefix, 33, was the calling code for France. Who the hell would be calling me from France, he wondered. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who lived or was visiting there. He entered his office and punched up Bureau software that would identify the location of the callers. The local number had been placed from the headquarters of the Bernalillo County sheriff’s department. He knew it wasn’t Tom Burkhardt’s number. Then he figured it out. Camilla Ramirez. His initial reaction was a mild panic attack. Shit, he thought, what have I gotten into? Is she gonna stalk me now that we had sex? The feeling passed in a moment as he realized she must have called because she was confused about waking up in his apartment to find he had vanished without a word. Probably just wants to tell me she had a good time, he thought. He’d had a good time too. He made a mental note to return her call later in the day. Maybe he would see her again before next Tuesday.

  The second call was a diff
erent matter. The software confirmed that it had come from Paris. But, for some reason, it couldn’t provide any additional information. That puzzled him. The program had been hyped as being able to pinpoint the source of every call received; and provide additional information such as to whom the phone was registered. It was like the caller knew about the system and had managed to bypass it. Maybe James Bond is alive and well after all, he thought wryly.

  At a few minutes after three in the afternoon, he called the number in the sheriff’s department. Camilla Ramirez picked up on the third ring. He apologized for his mysterious behavior of earlier that morning, claiming he’d had an early morning appointment that he had almost forgotten. They agreed to meet for dinner on Saturday evening.

  Shortly after he finished the conversation his phone rang. The small screen displayed the number of the incoming call. It had a 33 prefix. He picked up the receiver.

  “This is Special Agent Christie.” There was a long pause at the other end. Christie said again, “This is Special Agent Christie, can I help you?”

  A man’s voice came over the line. “Agent Christie, it has been awhile. I trust you are well.”

  Christie struggled to place the voice. There was something vaguely familiar about it. And traces of an accent. Eastern European? “Who is this?” he said, trying to sound disinterested.

  “We last spoke almost a year ago.”

  “Yeah? In reference to what?”

  “Your family.”

  And then it hit him. The kidnapping of his family the previous summer. And the man who called him and said he had them, trying to use that as leverage to involve Christie in some forthcoming activity. That activity, Christie was sure, had been the attempt to assassinate the president. What Christie had known then was that his family had been abducted by Whelan’s people, and, according to a call from Deborah, they were safe and being treated like royalty. In a mansion. With servants. That fucking Whelan, he thought. No wonder his wife had gone all gaga over the Irish bastard. A solar flare immediately burst through his stomach. Yes, now he knew who was on the other end of the line.