Read Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Online
Authors: Tom Abrahams
Tags: #income taxes, #second amendment, #brad thor, #ut, #oil, #austin, #texas chl, #nanotechnology, #tom abrahams, #gubernatorial, #petrochemicals, #post hill press, #big oil, #rice university, #bill of rights, #aggies, #living presidents, #texas politics, #healthcare, #george h w bush, #texas am, #texas aggies, #taxes, #transcanada, #obamacare, #wendy davis, #gun control, #assassination, #rice owls, #campaign, #politics, #george bush, #texas governor, #ted cruz, #rick perry, #2nd amendment, #right to bear arms, #vince flynn, #alternative energy, #keystone pipeline, #chl, #election, #keystone xl, #longhorns, #phones, #david baldacci, #houston, #texas, #clean fuel, #ipods, #university of texas, #president, #health care, #environment
“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.
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.