by J. R. Rain
“I don’t want to talk about it, Lieutenant.”
“I understand.”
I said nothing, glancing past his head at the painting. It was of the ocean. Sara had loved the ocean, so much so that we had purchased a home on the beach where she could paint from the balcony—she had made a good deal of money from her art. Art that even my boss had bought. Now, she was dead, and I had to look at her painting every time I came into his office. I sucked in some air and felt the cold emptiness of her death squeeze my ribcage.
“Do you have any idea why I called you in?”
“No, Sir.”
He paused and set the pencil down on the desk, then picked it up again. He looked at me and squinted a little, as if I were a mirage on the distant horizon. “I have an assignment for you.”
“Okay.”
“I know they’ve been cutting back your workload, easing up on your number of assignments, but this will be, in fact, your last one.”
“Okay.” So, they were finally phasing out my position, as I’d expected for quite a while. Budget cuts. I sat there, stoic.
“You’ve been with us how long?”
“Thirteen years.”
“And you’ve deported many men in this time?”
“Hundreds, Sir.”
“You ever deported a dog?”
“A dog?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“No, Sir.”
He shoved a file across the desk. It was a very thin file. I picked it up and set it on my lap.
“It’s all in the file,” he said.
t was 122 degrees Fahrenheit in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
The man in front of me was not happy. Mostly, he was confused. Unhappy, confused, and probably irritable, since the air conditioning was clearly on the fritz. He looked at the paperwork on the desk in front of him some more, then at me again, and finally, at the dog sitting quietly by my side. Quietly, that is, if you didn’t count the continuous panting.
“You are here in Saudi Arabia to return… a dog?” The man spoke nearly perfect English.
“That’s correct.”
He looked again at the photocopy of my INS badge and identification, which he had photocopied himself as soon as I was led from customs to his office.
“I thought your agency returned people—criminals—to other countries. Not dogs.”
“He’s been a very bad dog.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Actually, that was a joke. Returning the dog to his rightful owner, I’m afraid, is not a joke.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes. It’s much too hot for jokes, Mr. Putnam.”
A ceiling fan chugged above us, but did little to disperse the superheated air. The fan, I thought, looked like it was going in reverse. Sucking air up, instead of dispersing it down. I almost said something, but decided against it. With any luck, I should be out of here in a few minutes.
“I think you are a spy,” said the man.
A little squirt of adrenaline zipped through me. So much for getting out of here in a few minutes.
He continued, “I’ll just come right out and say it. I think returning this dog to his rightful owner is a very contrived excuse to slip a spy into our country. I think I should have you arrested.”
I’d expected as much. I whistled once, and the dog abruptly stopped panting. He looked up at me, his bored expression gone, his face suddenly lively and alert. I nodded and patted my lap and without hesitation, the big son-of-a-bitch jumped up on me. Jesus, he was a heavy dog.
His one hundred and twenty-five pounds had never been more evident than when his huge feet found purchase in my crotch. I grunted and smiled at the Saudi official as the dog circled in my lap, and finally got comfortable.
“Mr. Putnam—”
“Look.” I lifted the dog’s front paws, revealing his shaven belly. “Do you see the scar?”
“Yes, I—”
“This dog was used to conceal opium packets, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. He was force-fed the packets and probably drugged. He, like many other such critters, ended up in our country, where most are slaughtered, then gutted to get at the blasted packets.”
The dog was panting again. Too damned hot not to. Hell, I wanted to pant. I looked again at the sickening scar across his stomach, just a haphazard zigzag, the drug dealers intent only on getting to the packets as soon as possible, the dog be damned. And they had been focused on retrieving their loot, until he’d awakened from whatever drug-induced sleep they’d put him under. And had gone nuts on someone who’d deserved what he’d gotten.
“They kill these dogs, gut them like fish, and leave them to die. If they are merciful, they’ll their throats. If not, the poor creatures die very long, painful deaths,” I explained.
“I’m well aware of the practices of these smugglers—”
“But as you can see,” I said, “he didn’t die. He was found on a highway in a pool of his own blood with something very interesting in his stomach.”
The Saudi customs official, despite himself, looked from the dog to me. I waited.
“Well?” he asked. “What did they find?”
Actually, they’d found three things in his stomach, but I was going to mention only one.
“A finger,” I said.
“A finger?”
“Yes, a human finger. He bit it off the hand of a drug smuggler.”
“And the dog escaped, finger and all?”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
“And then, he led you back to the drug dealers,” said the customs agent, getting into it.
“Straight to them.” Except for the one missing a finger.
“And you caught the bastards.”
“Yes. But not until after a massive gunfight.”
“A gunfight?”
“Four dealers were shot. I was grazed under my chin.” I showed him my healing scar, still white and raised.
“By Allah! That was close!”
“You’re telling me.”
“And to thank the dog for his heroics, your agency decided to return him to his home country.”
“Not just to his home country, but to his home.”
“A wonderful story, Mr. Putnam, but I think you are full of dung.”
“Well, it was worth a try, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve heard better.” He briefly put a hand under his desk. “And now, I’ve activated a silent alarm, and even as we speak, guards are coming to my assistance.”
“That’s too bad. I thought we were friends.”
“Friends? One question: Did you cut open this dog to aid your story?”
“No,” I said, “everything I told you about the dog is true.”
“But I thought you just said—”
“Oh, I just made up the part about being shot and working for the INS,” I said. “You see, I actually am a spy.”
He was just reaching for something inside a drawer when I leaped out of my chair, dove across his desk, and wrestled the man to the floor. A few well-placed blows later, the agent was out cold. The big dog gave me a surprised look, as if waiting for my cue.
I heard feet running outside.
“Time to beat it, pooch.”
Woof!
“Exactly.”
First, I locked the office door. Second, I tried the small window behind his desk. Stuck, and stuck good. So, I picked up the office chair and hurled it through the glass, which shattered nicely.
Office chair: 50 dinars.
Window: 30 dinars.
Freedom: Priceless.
Pounding on the door behind me was followed by shouts. I used a trashcan to quickly clear the window of any remaining shards and whistled for my charge. He promptly jumped into my arms, and I helped him through the window. He squatted on the sill briefly, barked once, then leaped out. I followed immediately behind, although I didn’t bark.
Behind me, the office door burst open.
he chase through the airport in Riyadh
was a wild one, full of near misses, blocked exits, locked doors, and cunning, if not fortuitous, escapes. I’m looking at you, inattentive baggage handler with the massive pile of suitcases, certainly enough for a man and well-trained dog to hide within.
Being the plucky hero that I am, I raided the closest giant wheeled suitcase, donned a remarkably nice-fitting, long-sleeved, ankle-length robe called a thobe, ditched the remaining contents of the luggage in a trashcan, and coaxed War Daddy into the giant rolling suitcase. Yes, the dog’s name was War Daddy. He went in with some hesitation. I sent him a mental image that all would be okay. He responded by a long, wet lick across my forehead that warmed my heart, and in he went—when the convoy of suitcases stopped, out we went, right past the bored baggage handler who’d been looking the other way. Dressed as a local and pulling my heavy wheeled suitcase behind me, I hurried past him, nodding and smiling, and headed out into the sunshine and the intense heat.
I know the language fluently, which was why I had been handpicked for this assignment. I know Saudi Arabia as well, having served here as part of a military operation, years ago. What I hadn’t expected was to be accused of being a spy, although we were trained to think on our feet during every worst-case scenario.
Which was why I’d had the foresight to call an agent friend of mine who worked for the U.S. Embassy and asked him to wait for me at the curb. There he was, leaning on the car, checking his watch and looking bored, arms crossed and sweating in the heat. I nodded at him, and stepped past him and into the back seat of the limo.
“Hey, you can’t—holy shit, is that you, Alan?”
I said nothing and pulled War Daddy’s suitcase inside with me. Before shutting the door, I winked at my friend and said, in perfect Arabic, “Of course. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”
My friend, always up for an adventure, gave me a lopsided grin, shut the door, and hustled around the car. And none too soon either. Through the side window, I saw guards fanning out, scanning the length of the passenger pick-up area for a very large American with a very large dog. I sat back and grinned as I unzipped the suitcase next to me to give the occupant some fresh air.
A furry face poked out, panting, and, I swear to God, grinning.
any nights, many adventures.
War Daddy and I worked our way through Riyadh, evading police and the military, blending in when possible, and hiding when necessary. I planned our big push into the interior. The interior of Saudi Arabia might as well be the interior of hell itself. Heat and fire and sand and death. I knew this from experience, and I was not looking forward to it. Shortly, after many subtle inquiries and exchanged dinars, I paid our way onto a desert caravan that was hauling clothing, sneakers, and, I suspected, weapons.
I had long since memorized the dog’s file. Yes, the dog had a file. His name was War Daddy. He’d actually had on a dog collar when they’d found him. Some bastards had filled him up with packets of opium. He was supposed to have been killed. Opened up, emptied of his cache, and then destroyed. He’d bitten off the finger of a captor and had escaped with his guts hanging out. My kind of dog. War Daddy. Yeah, the name fit.
And now, here he was by my side, three days into a desert caravan plodding across the scorched earth. Panting, and strong as could be. His fur was still growing back where the vets had shaved him and stitched him up. It didn’t take him long to eat normally again. Now, he was as strong as me, and nearly as heavy… 125 pounds of pure muscle, teeth, and slobber. The strongest dog I’d ever seen. With the strongest will to live, too.
It made me wonder… what did he live for?
Was there someone he missed, a young owner? Had War Daddy been raised just to become live transportation for opium bags? Or had the big fella been dognapped? Was there, even now, a distraught family awaiting his return?
I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.
But first, we had to survive the trek across the desert, and now, in this third week of our journey, we had to survive the marauders.
ike the Middle Eastern version of an American wagon train, we were grouped together within a semi-ring of camels and tents and watchmen. The watchmen had AK-47s. Serious stuff. I was weaponless, other than a curved jambiya I’d found among the bleached-white bones of a forgotten trader. I found these remains one night while pitching my tent and prudently kept the discovery a secret. Now, I wore the traditional curved short blade at my hip, under my belt. Still, I felt naked. I itched for my government-issue Walther. Then again, I often spent time in the field. As such, I rarely carried my weapon with me.
Granted, my fieldwork often consisted of returning prisoners to their home countries, not dogs to their rightful owners.
If there even was one.
It was our third week in the desert. The caravan was well-stocked and should, baring incidents, find its way even to Timbuktu without much problem. Yes, there is a Timbuktu, and I’d been there, though it’s not quite as enchanting as it might sound.
However, an attack that left us without supplies could be the death of us all, and it would barely take a day or two for the entire caravan to not look much different than the bleached bones I’d found a few days ago. I suspected, buried in these shifting sands, were many such bones, long forgotten, their stories capable of filling epic adventure novels.
I sat here now, enjoying the cooling night, which would reach freezing temperatures soon enough. On average, the Sahara is covered in a depth of about three hundred feet of sand, or about the length of a football field. Vertically, of course. Surely enough sand to bury whole cities, much less caravans. Even now, how many bones lay beneath me? How many lost cities? Lost families? Gold? Jewels? Or maybe nothing? Maybe it was just hundreds of feet of sand and then solid bedrock, ground smooth as a baby’s bottom.
I rubbed War Daddy’s neck. He seemed on high alert this night, which put me on edge, and kept me from slipping into sleep, despite my exhaustion. It had been a long day full of steep climbs, arguments, and too little food and water. I was not used to the simple diet and meager rations, but given enough time out here, this would change. For now, though, I was always hungry and thirsty. Mostly thirsty. Because I was sharing my water ration with War Daddy.
As the night wore on, the traders, exclusively male, told stories and shared food, while a few stole some quiet moments in their tents. War Daddy, with his thick front legs and massive paws, suddenly stood on alert. He stared off into the near distance, toward a dune that rose opposite the moonless night sky. He barked once, twice, the timbre so deep, I felt the sand grains shift around me. He stepped forward, his wide paws perfectly adapted to the moving sand. Indeed, they acted as sort of sand shoes for the big fellow. He barked again, and I reached up to hold his collar. His tail was stiff and straight. No movement. Now, our fellow travelers looked up, their tales petered out, even their water jugs forgotten.
And then, the rest of us heard them, too… and shortly, a wave of raiders on camelback descended from the dune, followed by shouts and gunfire, and now, I was moving, too. Fast.
irst, I snapped on War Daddy’s leash.
I didn’t want to lose him in this battle. I didn’t want to lose him, period. As the days piled up, as the weeks came and went, as the shifting sand blew into eternity, I had grown closer to my charge. I did not want to feel anything for him. I had not planned on it. He was, after all, just another assignment. But as we slept together, in my simple tent, as I cleaned the dust out of his eyes and nose and whispered that I admired his resiliency and strength and loyalty, I fell in love with him. God help me.
But now, we had to get out of this alive.
And this, from all appearances, was a full-scale attack. By whom… Well, what did it matter?
The traders were fighting men, too. You had to be, to travel this ancient route. I’d paid my way into their group, keeping a low profile, even though I knew there were those who whispered behind my back. There was no such thing as social media here, and no cell service in the midd
le of the Arabian Peninsula. Still, more than once, I had earned their respect, pushing camels and provisions up steep hills, breaking my back right alongside them, sweating and laughing with them. I let them drink first, and only accepted the water skin when it came my way. I asked for nothing extra, and gave them everything I had. Within the first week, I had become one of them. I thought about that with some pride. These were hard men, perhaps as hard as they came.
Now, as the attackers descended upon us, I did not run, but I did not lose sight of my dog either. Yes, my dog. T’aul, the leader of the caravan, shouted my name and tossed me an old rifle. A lever-action Winchester 1892, ten rounds fully loaded. Good enough. I nodded and ran for cover behind the closest dune. War Daddy came willingly enough.
I was not fully prepared for the intensity and depravity of the battle. Nor was I fully prepared to witness what I witnessed. There was apparently a reason why the dog was called War Daddy.
We had over sixty men. The enemy had about the same number. But it was a moonless night, and they were many. They ambushed us, coming from the northern hill and now, from behind us, too, where I was hidden. Explosions flashed from their muzzles, the pop-pop of firing weapons filled the air.
I scrambled to my feet and headed over to a small collection of wooden chests, packed full of trade goods, and only recently unstrapped from the camels for the night. There, I hunkered down between two such chests and with War Daddy next to me, took aim at the closest rider.
My shot was true, and he tumbled from his camel to land face-first in the sand, hands outstretched, sliding briefly before he came to a stop. I knew that within days, his body would be covered and he, too, would be forgotten. Many of these desert scoundrels are loners, banding together for survival and raiding parties, with no loyalty to anyone, probably no real friends, probably no life at all. The lowest of the low, in other words, desperate animals attacking the innocent, stealing from the hard-working, taking real pleasure in murdering and hurting and destroying.
