Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  The waitress brought me a menu. My stomach warned me I wasn’t particularly hungry. I settled for a chimichanga and a bottle of mineral water.

  Since I’d sat down, two couples had entered the restaurant and found seats. Both of them looked like American tourists; the men in their golf shirts and shorts, the women in their cotton blouses and Capri pants. I took a sip of the water, its carbonation bubbled in my mouth. Then I saw him.

  A well-dressed man with short gray hair and reflective aviator sunglasses walked in from the street and stood in the entry. He pulled the glasses from his eyes and stuck them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, squinting as he scanned the room. His eyes settled on me, he nodded the half-nod of recognition men often share, and made his way to my table.

  I could tell he was British before he spoke. His jacket and pants were tailored slim. His shirt was a tight checkerboard of blue and white, his tie a solid green. He smiled and his stained, crowded teeth gave it away.

  “Mr. Quick?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me. He kept on his jacket. I assumed the meeting would be short.

  “Yes.” I rubbed the dampness from my palm and extended a handshake. His grip was firm but non-threatening. He looked me in the eyes. I always measure a man by how he shakes hands. If he looks me in the eyes, he’s off to a good start. “And you are?” I ask.

  “Mr. Davis.” I assumed it was not his real name. “First time in London?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d always imagined a trip here, though under far different circumstances. I’d gotten my passport because Charlie and I were planning a vacation through Europe after the election was over. It was her idea. London, Paris, Rome, Barcelona. We’d buy Eurail passes and stay in cheap hotels. I felt a tinge of guilt being here without her, but it was my job. I couldn’t tell her about it. I told her I was in El Paso meeting with the county party chairperson.

  “Where are you staying?” Davis asked, but I don’t think he really cared.

  “Kensington,” I said. “Near Earl’s Court.”

  “Nice.” He leaned his woolen elbows on the table. “Many wonderful hotels there. It’s convenient if not centrally located.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Davis?”

  The waitress arrived with my plate and warned me it was hot. I touched the plate anyway. It was hot. Seeing me ignore her warning, she smiled and rolled her eyes.

  “Everybody does that,” she laughed and asked Davis what he’d like, if anything.

  “A margarita please,” he smiled at me as he ordered. It sounded odd hearing someone with a British accent order a mah-gah-reeter. “I hear they’re not to be missed,” he leaned back in his chair and adjusted his coat. Maybe his visit with me would be longer than I thought.

  “You asked me something, Mr. Quick?”

  I studied his expression, which gave away nothing. His face was smooth, the pores small. He took good care of himself, apart from neglected orthodonture. His eyes were bright, telling me he knew more about me than I would ever learn about him.

  “What do you do?”

  “Hmmm,” he tapped his fingers on the edge of the table as though he were playing piano. “I suppose whatever it is needs doing, Mr. Quick.”

  “Must keep you busy,” I remarked. I took my fork and dug into the shell of the chimichanga. Steam rose from the shredded chicken inside the fried shell. The waitress brought his margarita, on the rocks, salted on the rim of the glass.

  “It depends on the season young man.” Davis smiled and took a sip of his drink. “Quite good. Never too early in the morning for a good drink, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded and chewed the chimichanga, burning the roof of my mouth. Davis thumbed the salt from above his lip. He licked it off as though he were preparing to turn the page of a book.

  “So, Mr. Quick,” he pushed his drink toward the middle of the table and began his concerto again with his fingers, “you have something for me?”

  I could hear the condescension in his voice. He was much older than I, and obviously more experienced in cloak and dagger exchanges performed over late morning alcohol and European Tex-Mex.

  “Yes, I guess I do.” I put down my fork, wiped my mouth, and turned to my carry-on. I unzipped it and pulled out the iPod, turning it on for the first time since receiving it.

  Davis reached across the table with an open hand. I hesitated.

  “There’s a code, Mr. Davis,” I reminded him. “You need to give me the code. I will unlock it, then it’s yours.”

  “Of course.” A crocodile smile. “Zero, Three, Zero, Two.”

  I tapped the numbers onto the screen and the device unlocked.

  I passed the iPod to Davis. “It’s yours.”

  Without saying another word, Davis slipped the iPod into his interior breast pocket and pushed back from the table. He fixed his jacket and turned to leave. I half expected him to turn around as he walked out of the restaurant. He didn’t. He was gone and it was as if we’d never met.

  ***

  “Each trip was financed through a bank account connected to some powerful people.”

  I say nothing.

  “What you’re doing would be considered,” The Saint pauses for effect, “sedition.”

  Sedition? What does he mean?

  I flinch as he moves behind me.

  “I want to know what was on those iPods.” The Saint is behind my right ear now. “What did you give to your contacts? I know you know what was on them. At least one of them was synched to a computer before you delivered them to your contacts.”

  Synched? He’s knows ‘at least one of them was synched’? How can he know this?

  Somewhere I am finding the strength to resist the temptation to talk. Part of it is that I am so tired I don’t have the energy. Part of it is I’m expecting death regardless. It doesn’t matter.

  I shake my hanging head and sigh. I catch a whiff of licorice and bleach before I exhale. Without thinking about it, I talk. I refuse to die a victim.

  “Lyle Lovett,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “The iPod. Maybe it’s Lyle Lovett,” I chuckle without looking at him. “You know, You’re not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway?” I ape in my best crooner’s voice.

  “You can play these ridiculous games,” he sneers. “Let’s remember I am the one with the information here. I know you, you don’t know me. I know about the iPods, I know about Charlie, about your childhood friend Hank, and those couple of years after college you’d rather forget.”

  Hank? How does he know about Hank? Nobody is supposed to know. Nobody.

  “You might think you know me,” I snap through my quickening pulse. “Obviously you’ve got connections. If you knew half as much as you claim to know, you wouldn’t be trying to get information from me now. There’s clearly stuff you don’t know. I’m not helping you figure out what that stuff is. Do to me whatever you want.”

  “Okay.” His thick mitt of a hand pats me on right shoulder. I jerk involuntarily. Despite my verbal bravado, the constant threat of pain frightens me.

  “I’m going to need you to hold still,” he warns a moment before there’s the pinch of a needle in my neck and the slight burn of whatever it is he’s injecting into my bloodstream. I don’t have to time to react before I’m disoriented. He’s saying something to me, but I can’t really understand him.

  Who is this man? What does he really want from me? Who is he working for?

  I was a courier. That’s all. I did what was asked of me. Now I find myself losing consciousness again. The room begins to wobble. He’s pressing numbers on a cell phone. He mumbles.

  Is he talking to someone on the phone?

  The lights go out. It’s quiet. I’m falling asleep. Or dying.

  ***

  In the twilight between deep sleep and waking up, a series of images flash through my mind: Charlie laughing that throaty giggle of hers, Don Carlos Buell being shot, an empty airport lounge in Caracas, me banging on
the metal of a small enclosed space and screaming for help, the Governor handing me a stack of iPods almost too big to carry, my parents catching fire, Sir Laurence Olivier as Szell drilling into my tooth and asking me, “Is it safe?”

  I jerk awake at the moment Szell’s drill hits my tooth. I’m groggy and have a pounding headache. My tongue is thick and pasty. There’s an ache in my lower back.

  I’m in a burnt orange UT T-shirt and white boxers, lying on my back staring at the white wainscoting which covers the ceiling. The flush mounted fan is spinning slowly, the pull chain tapping against the housing. I can feel the breeze on my legs. Sunlight is slipping in through the gaps in the open mini-blinds on the pair of double hung windows to my right, reflecting off of the dust floating in the air and the white exposed brick walls of the room

  I’m in my apartment.

  My apartment? How did I get here? Was it all a dream? Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I had some bad beer, some weird dreams, and now I have a horrible hangover. It’s gotta be a dream.

  I sit up in my bed and spin to put my feet on the worn pine floor. The thin planks are scratched and pock marked. The stain is uneven and faded, but the floor feels good on my bare feet. As I stand I lose my balance. Man, they need to clean the tap lines at the bar. The beer was something nasty.

  I walk the short distance to my bathroom and drop my boxers to sit on the toilet. I’m too dizzy to stand. I rub my toes against the grout in the two inch tile that lines the bathroom floor. I’m home. I am safe.

  I stand up, flush, and shuffle to the sink. I flip the tap and bend over to cup the cool water in my hands. I splash it on my face and feel my skin tighten against the chill.

  Still hunched at the waist I blindly grab a clean towel from the rack next to the mirrored cabinet in front of me. I dry my face and exhale. My knees feel weak, my lower back hurts, and my head pounds with each heartbeat. I can feel it in my temples.

  I drop the towel to the edge of the sink and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and I have deep, dark circles that run from the bridge of my nose to the edges of my face near my throbbing temples. I’m thinner somehow. Maybe it’s the thick stubble on my chin and along my jaw line. I thought I shaved yesterday.

  My thick wavy mop of brown hair is unkempt and seems darker. I rub my hands through it. The strands are heavy with oil and grease. I’ll need to take a shower before I go anywhere.

  There’s a small circular bruise on the left side of my neck. I rub it. It’s sore.

  I open the mirror and pull out a bottle of migraine medicine. I push down on the cap and spin it open, shake out two caplets, and pop them in my mouth. After putting the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, I bend over to slurp from the faucet.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been this hung-over.

  My apartment is a two bedroom near downtown Austin. It’s expensive. I don’t spend money on much else, and I like living so close to work. I still have a lot of the money my parents left to me when they died. It got me through the lean years as a $12,000 a year reporter in Tyler. I’ve got maybe $350,000 left. I only use a little of it here and there. I feel guilty spending it.

  I walk out into the combination family room/kitchen and yank open the refrigerator. There’s a carton of orange juice, a tub of margarine, a small can of Red Bull, and some leftover takeout from Iron Works Barbecue. I pull the carton of juice to my mouth and take a couple of gulps before I taste its bitterness. It’s sour. I smell it and wince. The expiration date tells me it’s got three days. What the hell?

  The phone rings.

  I trudge back to my bed and sit on its edge to pick up my cell, which apparently I left on the oak nightstand. San Antonio area code.

  “Hello?” I rub my temples with my left hand as I hold the phone in my right. I’m looking at the digital clock next to the bed. The LED numbers announce 3:45.

  It’s that late?

  “Jackson Quick?” I immediately recognize the voice. The Saint.

  I can’t speak.

  “Okay, Jackson, my good man,” The Saint continues in an even, disturbing tone. “I’m going to explain this to you slowly. You are not to hang up. You are not to take notes. I want you to remember what it is I am about to tell you.”

  I say nothing. I can’t. I physically can’t. The pounding at my temples is suddenly blinding.

  “I’ll assume your silence implies your consent.”

  What is going on?

  “I am aware of everything you do, Jackson.” There is the sound of street traffic in the background. “I am watching you. You are not to tell anyone.”

  This is not a dream, is it?

  “I will know if you snitch, as they say,” he makes the word snitch sound particularly vile. “I will not be pleased with you. As for your whereabouts for the last five days…”

  Five days? I’ve lost five days?

  “You’ve been ill,” he explained. “While you were with me, I sent text messages from your phone to anyone who tried to contact you.”

  He had my phone and my keys.

  “If you fail to comply…” The Saint pauses, in the distance there’s what sounds like the air brakes of city bus, “…we’ll repeat our question and answer session.”

  “Why did you let me go?”

  It’s the only thing I can think to say. I can feel a clammy sweat forming on my forehead. My stomach feels tight. There’s an acidic ache in my chest. Bullies have always made me want to puke.

  “You’ll be of more use to me this way.”

  “Useful for what?”

  There’s the honk of a car horn and the line goes silent. He’s hung up. I check the number on my phone and hit redial. Maybe he’ll answer.

  It rings five times.

  “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice on the other end. She has a thick Texas drawl which catches me off guard.

  I’m not sure what to say. “Uh, yeah. Where am I calling?”

  “Dude,” the woman sounds incredulous. “This is a pay phone at the Stop N Go on Sahara Drive. You probably have the wrong number.”

  “Are you in San Antonio?”

  “No, Sahara Drive in Austin.” She hangs up.

  I sit on the edge of my bed holding the phone. My mind is racing through my options, though it seems I have none. Unconsciously rubbing the soreness from my right knee, I try to evaluate my situation.

  I can’t tell anyone where I’ve been for five days. I’m in danger of being kidnapped again. The iPods I’ve been faithfully delivering all over the world are somehow connected to the assassination of the man who wants my boss’s job. Whatever information is downloaded onto those iPods is treasonous.

  I’ve got to figure out what is on those iPods. I need to draw the connection between that information and the shooting. Maybe, if I can do that, The Saint will leave me alone. He, and whoever he is working for, will let me go back to my life. I can focus on my future with Charlie.

  Charlie!

  It seems like more than five days since I’ve seen her. It feels more like a year. Actually, I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. I fall back onto the bed and stare up at the spinning fan. If I focus on a single spot long enough, I can see the individual blades as they turn counterclockwise. It’s a welcome distraction.

  I need to see Charlie.

  ***

  “I have missed you sooo much!” Charlie’s grip around my neck is tight. I don’t want her to let go. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Charlie loosens her hold and moves back to look me in the eyes. She brushes my hair off my forehead. Her fingernails tickle.

  “I’ve missed you too.” I have. She has no idea how much. “I’m sorry about leaving you at the bar on Thursday. I—”

  “I know,” she interrupts and turns to lead me to her sofa. Her left hand grabs my right. “You felt sick. I got your text when I was still in the Ladies’ room. I was a little pissed off you left me there, but I got over it.”

  I sit on the soft chenille of her overstuffed sofa a
nd she straddles me, sitting on my lap with her legs tucked behind her. I rest my hands on her hips. She’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. I thumb the copper rivets on the pockets of her jeans. It’s good to be with her.

  She has her hands on my shoulders. Her T-shirt reads “Bush Cheney ‘04”. She’s more politically conservative than I am. I’m right-leaning moderate. We both, though, found our way onto the Governor’s staff ahead of his reelection.

  “You look like you’ve lost weight, poor baby,” she noted. She pouts her lips and frowns, running the back of her hand along the right side of my face. “I wish you’d have let me come and nurse you back to health.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to see me like that.” I’m guessing my kidnapper had dissuaded her.

  She leans forward and slides her hands onto my chest. Her lips meet mine and we kiss for a few moments. She’s an aggressive kisser and I like it. She can tell.

  Twenty minutes later we’re cuddled together under a blanket on the sofa. I’m lying on my back and she’s curled around me, her left leg draped over me. We’re holding hands, playing with our fingers.

  It’s dark outside and the soft lamplight in her apartment radiates warmth. There are framed reproductions of French impressionists and wrought iron sconces boasting thick candles. The walls are beige with thick crown molding. Her furniture is a mix of antique, glass, and overstuffed, floral-patterned chairs. I call it ultra-feminine. She calls it shabby chic.

  “You broke a nail,” I pointed out. The index finger on her right hand is missing its usual manicure. I rub the top of her finger with mine.

  “Yeah,” she sighs. “I’m going to need to get a fill.” She shifts on the sofa and lays her head on my chest. I missed her. Before I get to figuring out what the hell happened to me and what I have to do with an assassination, I need a minute to decompress.

  “Hey,” I ask as nonchalantly as I can muster, “what’s going to happen to the race now that Buell is dead? I guess the debate is cancelled?”