Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  “A paradox?”

  “No, no, no. Hand me the bottle.”

  Burke, having forgot that they were supposed to be cutting Moore off, handed over the second bottle of rum, now perilously close to being empty.

  The chief took a pull. “It was an in-your-face. A fuck-you.”

  “I don’t think there’s a word for that,” Perry said, tactfully reclaiming the bottle.

  “You know my background prior to SpyCo was government-sponsored espionage, right?”

  Burke nodded. “You were CIA, weren’t you?”

  Moore belched. “Something like that. Anyway, when I began to realize that so much more could be done to make the world safer than we were allowed to do within the confines of official channels, I decided to go out on my own. I began recruiting former operatives, cherry-picking some promising up-and-comers, and in a little while, had enough of an infrastructure to start operations. We started working cases right away that were outside the wheelhouse of my former employers. Right about the time I started to feel like I’d really made the right move by going it on my own, I got a visit from my former section chief. I can still see his pompous, squinty-eyed face to this day. God, how I wanted to punch it in. He buys me a drink, then all condescending says, ‘So, Moore. How’s your little spy company coming along?’”

  “The bastard,” Perry said.

  “More than you know. Just two months prior, I had personally taken out a target his people had wanted for three years. Anyway, it really pissed me and, after two months of struggling to come up with a name for my organization, a light flickered on in my head. ‘SpyCo is doing fabulously!’ I replied. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Viktor Petreshka.’ The prick looked confused and said, ‘Don’t you know? Petreshka is dead.’ I smiled and said, ‘Of course, I know—I killed him. Me and my little spy company. SpyCo. Remember it.”

  “Ironic,” Perry said.

  “Huh?” Moore grunted.

  “It’s an ironic name. That’s the word you were looking for.”

  “I liked a ‘fuck-you’ name better,” Burke said. He took the bottle from Perry and tipped it back but found it was empty. He held it aloft and his eyes grew misty. “If we had something to write with, I could put a note to Lyndsey inside and throw it in the ocean. As it is, I may never see her again.”

  Moore, who had been lost in his story, now turned to Burke. “You’ve got it bad for Venus, don’t you? What happened to the major player I used to know?”

  “He wised up for good in Australia. There were gorgeous women all over the place, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Lyndsey. I began thinking that every time she and I were right, I was the best I could be. And when we were wrong, I was the worst I could be. While in the closet in the lab, waiting to be blown to pieces or broiled to death, it all kind of sorted itself out in my head. I realized I was in love with her, and that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life.”

  Moore had remained silent through the soliloquy, but when Burke paused, he said, “She’s not sure about you yet, you know.”

  “Huh?”

  “You screwed her over more than once, and she’s more or less stuck by you. Part of it was the fact that you had to work together on cases from time to time, but mostly it was her being a better human being than you. You can’t jerk women around that way, Burke. Especially women with guns. Sooner or later, she’s either going to walk away forever or shoot you and then walk away forever.”

  “But I’m done with all that!” Burke protested.

  Moore sighed. “Get over here. I want to put my arm around your shoulder and give you sage, fatherly advice, you miserable asshole.”

  Burke slid until he was seated next to Moore, their backs leaning against the inflated rubber wall of the raft.

  “Now, listen,” Moore said. “Now that you’ve figured out she’s the one, you have to get there too.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Stop screwing up.”

  “Ship,” said Perry.

  “My advice isn’t shit,” Moore growled. “It’s awesome. Now shut up while I indulge in being a father figure with no real responsibility for how things turn out.”

  Perry struggled to his knees and pointed behind the other two men. “No, not shit. Ship! It’s a goddamn ship!”

  Moore and Burke turned quickly around and saw that Perry was correct. About a half-mile off was a large merchant ship. All three men began shouting and waving their arms.

  “We need something more visible,” Moore said. “They probably can’t hear us from there.”

  Perry noticed Burke was only waving one arm, the broken limb being entirely useless. “The flare!” he shouted. “I splinted Burke with a flare!”

  13

  Connor’s apartment was not exactly a treasure trove of information. Either he had been a better agent than Lyndsey would have given him credit for or simply too new on the job to have accumulated the covert detritus so common in the living quarters of longtime agents. Experienced agents became adept at removing the telling signs of their profession from their personal space, but an equally experienced agent learned to identify the sanitizing efforts as exactly that. Connor’s apartment also didn’t have the antiseptic feeling, as personal effects were in abundant supply.

  Lyndsey straightened from where she’d been examining the contents of overturned dresser drawers.

  “Find something?” Adabelle asked.

  “Not yet. It’s a little weird. Connor wasn’t shy about his personal life and that’s making it difficult to find anything helpful.”

  Adabelle nodded. “I know what you mean. If we had weeks, or even a few days, we could use this apartment and its contents to create a pretty telling picture of the man. But…”

  “But we don’t have that much time. Whatever Connor was doing for Zmaj—and it’s still not completely certain that he was working for him—one would assume the plan was close to being enacted.”

  “We did kind of force his hand,” Adabelle pointed out.

  From the other room, Dot exclaimed, “Holy mother of God, what is this?”

  The two women hurried in to find Dot and Charlie flat on the floor and peering under a twin-sized bed.

  “Dot, what is it?” Lyndsey asked, dropping to her knees and trying to see past the heads of her co-agents and into the shadows beneath the bed.

  Dot and Charlie retreated, slowly wriggling backward on their stomachs and then pushing themselves up.

  “Take a look, Blondie,” Dot said. “But don’t blame me if you never sleep again.”

  IT WAS clear to all but the most obtuse that Zmaj had received very little formative instruction on regulating one’s own emotions. Although few enjoyed seeing Zmaj happy, as it too often resulted in nauseating laughter, it was just as unpleasant to see him angry. And he was angry now, as he held a phone in one puffy hand, squeezing it so tightly that it seemed the device would surely crumple within his grasp.

  “J. Carlton Moore is where?” he barked.

  “Freighter.”

  “What happened to that low-class yacht of his?”

  “Sank.”

  “Anyone dead?”

  “Nope.”

  “A shame, but not surprising,” Zmaj spat. “You can’t trust Mother Nature for anything, which is why I fully support climate change. It was time we taught her a lesson. Now listen, you, I want those agents taken from that freighter and delivered here to Ireland. It’s imperative they are here. Make it happen.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Sir.”

  “What is it with you and these one-word sentences?”

  “Trauma.”

  “What kind of trauma?”

  “Childhood.”

  “Ah, yes,” Zmaj scoffed. “It always comes back to the childhood. Everyone needs to stop using that as an excuse. Take me, for example. I had a terrible childhood and I turned out just fine.”

  There was absolute silence from the other e
nd of the line.

  “And do you know why?” Zmaj prodded.

  Still silence.

  “Because I took responsibility and made something of myself! Boot straps, I tell you, boot straps! Now go do your job!” And with that, Zmaj ended the call with as much drama as one can with a cellphone. It had been much easier in the days of handsets and cradles to make a point by violently hanging up. Pushing a red circle on a touchscreen was painfully anticlimactic.

  “Trouble in paradise?” asked the Wolf, who had just returned from his factory after putting out the call to arms. He sat in a swivel chair, his feet propped on the edge of the desk. He appeared completely at ease, but Zmaj knew better than to assume he was relaxed and off guard. The Wolf was a tightly wound spring, ready to explode with destructive energy at any moment or provocation.

  “A mere hiccup,” Zmaj said. “My plan to unite SpyCo in Ireland has been interrupted by Moore’s inferior seamanship. He somehow managed to sink his pathetic yacht in a freak storm. That would have worked out nicely, had he also managed to die, but he couldn’t even scrounge up that much courtesy, and has thoughtlessly survived long enough to be picked up by a passing freighter.”

  “Tough luck.”

  “For him, really. You see, I have spent much time and many millions creating a global network of loyals. Not military and true espionage-grade individuals, but simply a host of men and women who are more than happy to make a few thousand dollars merely by picking up the phone. One of the freighter’s crew members is such an individual and overheard the rescued men talking with the captain. He recognized the name J. Carlton Moore and placed a call on the ship’s sat phone to the number of one of my lieutenants, who relayed the information to me.”

  “Now what?”

  “Moore and his crew must be taken from the freighter, which is currently headed for South America. Such a detour would take far too much time.”

  “This better not come back to bite me, Zmaj,” the Wolf said, his voice lowering to a growl. “I’ve placed my reputation on the line.”

  “Calm yourself. Everything is under control. My lieutenant is a resourceful man and will have the SpyCo crew in Dublin as quickly as humanly possible.” Zmaj glanced at his watch. “Speaking of resourceful, it’s long past time for another of my local agents to check in. Damn him! I should have known he was too young and impetuous for the job. Probably drunk at a pub somewhere.”

  “What was his game?”

  “To capture the SpyCo recon force here in Dublin, which would in turn be used as bait for Moore and his two main henchmen, Burke and Hall. He made his last report while on the way to his apartment, agents in tow. He’d managed to learn their names and was convinced they’d bought his cover story. It’s been quiet since.”

  The Wolf permitted himself a small, brief smile. “Burke and Hall? Sounds like an old vaudeville duo.”

  “They might as well be, the way they work. You’d think espionage was a game, the way those two act. Especially Burke. Hall is more serious, ever since Flick killed his wife.”

  “I’ve heard of this Flick. He was feared during his time.”

  Zmaj shrugged. “He was useful, but I can’t say I’m sorry he is gone. He was becoming a bit...unpredictable. I don’t enjoy having those on my payroll think they can freelance. Especially when certain jobs overlap their duties to me.”

  A CREW MEMBER poked his head around the cabin door. J. Carlton Moore looked up.

  “Can I help you, young man?”

  The crewman held out a sat phone. “A call for you, sir.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moore accepted the handset, put it to his ear, and then glanced meaningfully at the crewman. The young man took the hint and ducked back onto the deck.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Moore?” It was a woman’s voice, muffled and indistinct.

  “Who is this?”

  “Charlie. It’s Charlie. In Dublin.”

  “Ah, Charlie! Good to hear from you. I was intending to contact you and the others as soon as I could manage.”

  “How are you? And the others?”

  “We’re fine, although Perry and Burke are dead to the world. We had a bit to drink on the raft. Oh, and Burke broke his arm. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good, glad to hear it,” Charlie said. “Listen, something has come up here and we need all the help we can get.”

  “What exactly has come up?”

  “I don’t want to say too much.”

  “Very well, I’ll dispatch some agents to help you.”

  “I think you might want to be here for this one, sir.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “It may involve Zmaj.”

  Moore was quiet for a moment. “You’re right, I would like to be there. Although I’m a little incapacitated and on the way to South America, according to the ship’s captain.”

  “Not to worry, sir. I’ve sent a helicopter to pick you up.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “Yes, sir. Did I do wrong?”

  “Uh, no, I just...how did you manage that?”

  “I’m with Dot, remember?”

  “That clever old bitch. By the way, how did you get this number? This isn’t my sat phone.”

  “Oh, well...we, uh, knew approximately where your yacht went down and so we contacted the maritime offices and found out which ships were in the area. Each ship has a number of sat phones for emergencies. It was just a matter of getting the number for one of them. Fortunately, the offices were willing to help out, considering the circumstances.”

  “Ah. I must say I’m impressed with your ingenuity, Charlie. I won’t forget this when I consider your request for a paygrade increase.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, and feel free to call me Moore. I think you’ve earned it.”

  The moment the call ended, Moore opened the cabin door to hand the phone back to the waiting crewman. Then he closed the door again and turned to Perry and Burke.

  “We’re in the shit,” he said. “That wasn’t Charlie.”

  14

  Lyndsey took out her phone, pressed the button to turn her camera flash into a flashlight, and then shone it under the bed. An involuntary gasp escaped her before she locked her lips and forced herself to keep looking. Under the bed was a row of human heads, all carefully preserved. The eyelids were sewn shut, sunken, but the lips had drawn back, revealing wide smiles. The skin was a yellowish-brown, no doubt from the preservative, and the hair appeared to have been styled.

  Lyndsey pushed herself to her hands and knees, and then glanced over her shoulder. She managed a wobbly grin and, in a voice that only slightly shook, said, “Well, I’m guessing that explains the smell.”

  “And I’m guessing we were intended to be the newest additions to his collection,” Dot said, her voice tight with indignation. “I knew that little shit was no good from the moment I laid eyes on him. I figured he was after some head, but this isn’t what came to mind.”

  “I wonder who these poor people are?” Charlie said.

  Dot shrugged. “Who knows? Local forensics is out of our sphere of interest, so we’ll probably never find out.”

  “But we can’t just leave them here.”

  “Once we finish looking around, we’ll tip off the police and let them deal with it. Remember this, Charlie. We don’t get involved in local affairs.”

  “But what if this isn’t local?” Charlie persisted. “What if these are agents he’s killed, like notches on the belt of a gunfighter in those Yank western movies?”

  Dot shook her head. “I doubt those are the remains of agents. If he’d been good enough to kill that many enemy agents, we would’ve had a more difficult time taking him out. More likely, he was some psychopath who stumbled into Zmaj’s employ through underworld connections. This—” and here Dot motioned toward the bed that now hid its grisly secret— “was merely a sideline.”

  “That’s quite a s
ideline,” Lyndsey said. She’d gotten to her feet and was now looking around the room, searching for evidence as a way to distract herself from the horrible sight she’d just witnessed. She absentmindedly rifled through the messy landscape of a desk top. Receipts, an empty bag of crisps, and a half dozen empty beer bottles dominated the scene, which made the pamphlet stick out. Lyndsey plucked it from the carnage and turned it over in her hands. “Connor didn’t strike me as much of a tourist. What do you ladies think?”

  “I’d guess his interest in local attractions to be about a zero,” Adabelle said. “And that was before I knew about his little hobby. Why do you ask?”

  Lyndsey held up the pamphlet. “It’s a guide to a nearby castle.”

  “Is it Drimnagh?” Charlie piped up.

  Both Lyndsey and Adabelle looked at her in surprise.

  Charlie grinned. “I did a lot of reading on the area while waiting to ship out. I wanted to be prepared.”

  “Miss Eager-to-Please,” Lyndsey said. “But, yes. It’s Drimnagh.”

  “It’s an interesting place,” Charlie said. “It’s the only castle in Ireland to maintain a functioning moat. A lot of films have used the castle in their productions, including one of my favorite shows, The Tudors.”

  Lyndsey opened her mouth to interrupt, but Charlie was already speaking again, seeming eager to share all of her hard-gained knowledge.

  “You used to be able to rent the castle for weddings or various performances, but then it was purchased and turned into a private residence.”

  This time, Lyndsey did interrupt. “Someone lives at Drimnagh Castle? That must be costing a fortune to overhaul and maintain. Who bought it? I’ll bet your research didn’t tell you that.”

  Charlie smiled. “Normally, you’d be right, but the name was so unusual that it jumped out at me. The castle was purchased by someone called Mr. Dragon.”

  “Dragon?” Lyndsey laughed. “That really is unusual. You ever met anyone named Dragon, Adabelle? Adabelle?”

  But the dark-haired agent didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted.