Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  The Saint says nothing and leaves the room with a series of clicks and creaks at the door. It’s quiet.

  The lights go out.

  Without sight, my sense of smell intensifies almost instantaneously. I can smell the carrots. I am sure I ate carrots. It’s mixed with the odor of mildew and bleach. It’s such an odd combination of smells. It’s a welcome distraction.

  How long have I been here? Somebody must be looking for me. My boss, my friends, Charlie…

  From above me there’s a long, inhuman moan and within seconds, an open-ended six inch pipe that drops a foot from the ceiling croaks to life and begins spitting water. I can’t see the pipe from my yoga pose, but it’s there. We’ve met before.

  This time the water is cold and hits me in uncomfortable spurts. Large exhaust fans begin to spin and the air chills. There’s a crackle from the intercom system.

  “I forgot your water.” The Saint is relentless.

  Tensing against the rustle of the intercom, my back seizes. The thickness of the cramped muscle along the right side of my spine hardens. The suddenness of it makes me laugh in pain and reflexively wince.

  He wants me to talk.

  ***

  I wake up to a sting on my right cheek. I’ve been slapped conscious.

  “What?” I ask with every bit of defiant anger I can muster. He doesn’t answer me.

  My eyes are watering and trying to adjust to the light, and I can see he’s connecting something to an electrical cord in front me. He’s plugging something into a socket. I can’t see exactly what it is. My heartbeat accelerates and I am having trouble catching my breath. It’s definitely something electrical. There’s water. There’s electricity.

  What is he going to do to me now?

  My eyes dart around the room again. This is where I am going to die? Electrocuted in a dungeon? My body burned, tossed, and never found?

  “What do you want from me?” This time my question is more of a whimper.

  Directly in front of me, on a small rolling table is a laptop computer.

  On the screen is the website from a Houston television station. Channel 4. In the large video box at the center of the screen is what appears to be news footage of a speech by the man challenging my boss for the Governor’s office. I can see an empty stage and lectern against the skyline of downtown Houston. The camera pans to the left to catch a group of dark colored SUV’s slowing to the curb near the stage.

  “I’d like for you to watch this.” The Saint was again behind me. From over my shoulder he clicked the keyboard to bring the video full-screen. His breath warms my neck behind my ear. I exhale and the tension in my shoulders relaxes. The electricity is not for me.

  On the screen is gubernatorial candidate Don Carlos Buell. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and an angular jaw. He appears deeply tanned with a shock of gray hair atop his head as he steps from an SUV and onto the grass flanked by shorter, lesser bespoke aides. As he crosses the grass with his long, effortless strides, he turns his body to the crowd and waves with both hands above his head.

  Buell climbs the half dozen steps onto the temporary stage that fronts the downtown eastern skyline. It’s elevated such that television and still photographers have to angle their cameras up at Buell, adding to his curb appeal.

  Buell glad-hands a handful of local politicians and walks onto the stage and steps up to the lectern without an introduction.

  Why does The Saint want me watching this? I start to shift in my seat and The Saint moves me.

  “Watch.”

  Buell is quieting the crowd. The camera zooms in to focus more clearly on the candidate.

  “Thank you,” he says, motioning again for the cheering crowd to lessen its enthusiasm. He shifts the flexible arm holding the mic. “Muchas gracias amigos!”

  Someone in the crowd yells back an unintelligible encouragement. Buell smiles and points. He’s a formidable opponent despite his lack of political experience. My boss is right to be worried about him.

  “My good friends,” Buell eases into his prepared remarks. No TelePrompTer, no notes. “It is so good to be back here in the wonderful city of Houston!” He pauses and turns to admire the skyline that frames him. He turns back to the congregation. “Look at this beacon of American ingenuity; the city known for energy and space exploration, technology and medical advancement. If this campaign gives me a heart attack I know where I’m heading. Right over there!” The crowd laughs with him as he points southwest toward the Texas Medical Center. The camera widens and tightens again. There’s a glint in Buell’s eyes.

  “I have made this campaign about being an American. It’s about Texas values and American idealism. I know both still exist in abundance here in Houston. I want to be the one who harnesses that capital which exists within every one of you. With your help we can, together, improve the lives of our families and neighbors. We can lift up those who need help without sacrificing that which we’ve worked hard to accumulate.”

  He pulls a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabs away at the shine glistening on his forehead, waiting for the applause to stop before he continues.

  “I am the son of a poor farmhand and a schoolteacher in the Valley. I did not always have the wealth I enjoy today. My riches are the very reason I choose to serve. I know there are other poor sons and daughters out there who have dreams. I want to help them realize those dreams. I want to give back to you what Texas and the United States of America has given to me.” More applause. “My daughter, Bella, said to me, ‘Papa’—that’s what she calls me—Papa, why should I vote for you?’”

  The crowd laughs again. They seem enraptured.

  “She tells me she knows I am a good father and businessperson. She wonders what would make me a good Governor.”

  Buell steps back from the mic, pauses, and bites his lower lip gently. He takes off his Italian cut suit jacket and hands it to an aide. He unbuttons his custom fit white cotton shirt at the collar and loosens the double Windsor knot of his tie. This is show. This is theatre. And I am his captive audience.

  “I will be a good Governor because I will help Texans from the bottom up and not from the top down. From the bottom up! I have ninety days to convince you and your friends and your coworkers and your neighbors and anyone who will listen I should be your next Governor. I need your help. Will you help me?”

  The crowd cheers and chants “BU-ELL, BU-ELL” affirming their willingness to follow and support their candidate. It lasts for two full minutes before Buell quiets them with a finger to his lips.

  “Now, I know,” his tone is softer and less excited, “there are those out there who will tell you I cannot do what I promise. There are naysayers who believe Texas is better off with the cronyism and favoritism that exists today in Austin. You know what they don’t know?”

  “What?” yells the crowd in unison.

  “Do you know?”

  “What?” This time louder.

  “They don’t know about you! They don’t know about your concerns and worries. They don’t know about how difficult it is to make a mortgage and pay for milk at the store. They don’t know about making a difference through hard work. They don’t know about working from the bottom up. They don’t know these things because they don’t listen! They haven’t heard you. They don’t want to hear you.”

  Buell raises his arms, expecting another cheer, but suddenly wrenches and collapses to the floor of the stage, like someone invisible punched him to the ground. There’s a spray of what looks like blood coming from his chest. The delayed sound of a gunshot cracks like a backyard lightning strike.

  What the hell???

  My eyes involuntarily widen from the shock, hurting from the influx of light. The cheers are replaced with screams as the blood pools from underneath Buell’s back. I don’t think the cheap speakers on the laptop convey the terror in those voices.

  The Saint, his breath on my neck again, reaches from behind me to stop the video and close the lid o
f the laptop.“Tell me about the iPod, Jackson,” he whispers.

  The iPod? The iPod? What does the iPod have to do with what I saw? How is the iPod connected to the assassination of a political candidate? How does he know about the iPod?Nobody is supposed to know about it. Nobody. I’ve done everything asked of me to keep it secret; to give it only to those for whom it is intended.

  “What iPod?” I say, playing stupid.

  “The iPod.”

  The lights are bright, and I think The Saint has turned on the heat. Maybe it’s not the heat. There’s sweat dripping down my back.

  “I can’t help you.” I won’t help you.

  “London, Caracas, Omaha, Anchorage, Baton Rouge, Oklahoma City, Tallahassee, Rio. Can you help me now?” The Saint is snarling and he knows where I’ve been.

  “If you’re not going to tell me what you know about the iPod,” he said, his breath hot against my left ear, “I am going to tell you what it is I know.”

  What does he know?

  “You’ve taken at least eight trips in the last six months and on each said trip you carried a different iPod.”

  I say nothing.

  ***

  I saw the first iPod months ago.

  “I have a job for you,” my boss told me. “It’s an important job that requires a certain amount of discretion.” My boss, the Governor of Texas, has a penchant for the dramatic. It’s what makes him an effective politician.

  “Okay,” I told him. What else would I tell him? I value my job. At least I did six months ago when I accepted the assignment.

  We were at the Governor’s ranch located about an hour northwest of Austin. The sprawling 1500 acre estate ran along the Lampasas River in between Lampasas and Copperas Cove. It’s a beautiful piece of rolling land dotted with mesquite, oak, pecan, and cedar trees.

  It was my first time at the ranch and I was surprised by the invitation. There I was, sitting on the back porch of his Texas limestone retreat. It was one of two houses on the property. This was the main house. He’d brought us each a glass of blood red wine from the climate controlled closet. I refused his offer of a Cohiba, but he indulged. He puffed and sipped and we talked about the weather and the white tailed deer which ate the garden day lilies at night.

  I fell into my job working for the Governor. He was in his second term and, through a friend of a friend, he hired me as part of his communications staff. In another life, I was a television reporter in Tyler, Texas and in San Antonio. I liked TV, but not enough. I didn’t like being a radio deejay either, or a website sales representative, or the host of other jobs I tried. I always found myself restless and needing to move. After falling off of the grid for a couple of years, I made the jump to politics. It was either that or public relations. I picked what I believed was the lesser of two evils.

  Within a couple of months, I was taken out of the press department and moved to the Governor’s personal staff. I ran errands for him. I returned phone calls. I did whatever he needed me to do. I didn’t question it. He told me I reminded him of himself when he was my age; ambitious but without direction.

  I work hard. I’m thorough and dependable. I don’t have any family obligations to preoccupy me.

  “I need there to be some communications with various friends of ours,” the Governor said. He smiled and leaned into me, the cigar in the right corner of his mouth. “I can’t really talk to these people in public, put them on the official calendar, or have them sign the guest register at the mansion. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Now I promise you there is nothing illegal here,” he winked as he said it. “It’s sensitive stuff. This could be good for you, you know. Maybe a promotion, more responsibility down the line.” His Texas drawl curled the vowels, making his words sound almost lyrical. His tone reminded me of Andy Griffith in that old TV courtroom show, Matlock. The lawyer was always a step ahead, even if he seemed a beat behind. It was the drawl. It was the perfect cover for his brilliance.

  “What is it?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Paperwork. Some digital documentation.” He looked at me intently and licked a spot of wine from his upper lip. No smile. No pretense. I understood no follow up question was necessary.

  He pulled the latest generation iPod from his pocket.

  “So, you’ll be doing some travel. You’ll be taking an iPod like this one to a handful of places. When there’s a trip to make, you’ll know about it.”

  The word iPod sounded like ‘ah-Pawd’. Lyrical. Almost.

  The Governor sure knew how to spin a phrase, and the accent when always thicker when he was trying to sell something.

  Chapter 2

  My first trip was to London. It was a ten hour nonstop flight from Houston to London Heathrow. After the tiring early morning drive from Austin to Houston, I slept through most of the flight. I was next to the window, cramped and uncomfortable with the narrow seat. I had with me a carry-on bag with my laptop, a change of clothes, and the Governor’s iPod. I’d also brought a small duffel bag with enough clothing and toiletries to last me the 48-hour length of the trip.

  Once I cleared passport control, I walked down the stairs to baggage claim. At the bottom of the steps was an ATM. I withdrew a couple hundred British Pounds and waited for my bag. It was the last one off of the carousel.

  I followed the signs to the exit and ground transportation. As I left baggage claim, I was hit by a mob of limo drivers holding signs. They were held back by a velvet rope, like paparazzi at a movie premiere. I unconsciously puffed my chest, stood a little straighter. I found the man holding the sign with my name: JACKSON QUICK.

  “That’s me,” I said, pointing at the sign. The man, who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent, nodded and waved me around the rope. I followed him to the garage outside the terminal. He had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear and was chattering in Arabic.

  He didn’t offer to take either of my bags.

  His car was a two-door Citroën DS3. It was small for a taxi, but whatever. It didn’t matter. I was traveling light.

  “Where you want me take you?” His English was broken but intelligible.

  “Admiralty Arch.”

  “Okay,” the driver said. “Good.” He continued his conversation in Arabic.

  Within minutes we were on the M4 traveling east into London’s city center. At Brentford we merged onto the A4 into town. I was amazed by the amount of construction on the southern side of the highway. It looked like a series of life-sized Erector sets with one large contemporary office building after another. The skies were gray, almost blending into the steel of the construction.

  Forty-five minutes after I climbed into the back of the DS3, I was climbing out. My right knee was stiff and ached from the long trip.

  “Sixty.” The driver was holding out his hand. “Cash.” The light on his Bluetooth headset was flashing. He was still in the midst of a conversation.

  I gave him seventy and grabbed my bags. The arch was directly ahead of me to my left, a beautiful old office building that marked one end of the Mall near Trafalgar Square. After looking at it for a moment to take it in, I slung my duffel onto my back and walked northeast toward Trafalgar.

  I had to remind myself to look right before crossing the street. A small car whirred past me as I balanced myself on a curb.

  Navigating the streets wasn’t difficult. They were well-labeled: Spring Gardens, Kennard, and then Cockspur.

  I laughed at the gold painted lettering above the large glass doors.

  “THE TEXAS EMBASSY”

  The large limestone building was once the home office of the White Star shipping line, owners of the Titanic. Now it was London’s finest Tex-Mex cantina. I’d thought the Governor was joking when he told me the meeting place.

  “You know,” the Governor had said days earlier in between bites of a sausage and cheese kolache, “Texas did have an embassy in London for a while.”

  We were walking from the Governor’s mansion to
the Capitol when he’d asked me to take the first trip. It was warm outside and he was wearing a polo shirt with khakis. Four Texas DPS troopers were following a half dozen steps behind providing security.

  “From 1836 to 1845 The Republic of Texas had its own delegation in London, Paris, and Washington. We were our own country. The British even offered to guarantee our borders with the United States and with Mexico. Of course, we folded into the U.S., became a state, and the embassies shut down.” The Governor was finished with the kolache and he’d slipped his hands into his pants pockets. His stride was effortless and he talked as if he’d lived through the events he now recalled with some nostalgic lamentation. This was an important trip he had told me.

  Now I stood looking at the cantina for a moment before crossing the street and walking into its roughhewn interior. It was early for lunch and the tables were empty. Martina McBride’s Independence Day was playing over the speakers in the high ceilings:

  In front of the open kitchen were two large stucco columns. One read, “Caliente Y Fresco”. Hot and Fresh. The other, “Tortillas”. From the décor and smell of grilled steak, I thought for a moment I was back in Austin at Z’Tejas or Trudy’s.

  I sat at a table near the tortilla column next to a potted tree decorated with little white Christmas lights. I rubbed my hands on the lacquered pine table. My palms were sweaty.

  On the table, there was a small tin holding packets of sugar and artificial sweetener and a drink menu. I decided to skip the drink. I needed my wits about me.

  My bags were in the chair next to me. I wanted them close to me.