What a Good Lad #2
Jessie sat in a quiet corner, with her back against the red velvet upholstered booth, watching the front door into Jobstown House Bar and Lounge.
Her shot of 12 Ouzo was resting on the image of a soccer ball on the cheap bar napkin that remained untouched.
It was early in the evening in Jobstown, on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland.
Most of the patrons of the bar seemed to be pensioners.
The staff was friendly to her even though her American accent gave her adopted ethnicity away.
Her red hair garnered more attention from the guests than she had anticipated.
She had hoped to see more redheads, but surprisingly they were few and far between.
Checking her watch, it read 6:33. Her contact was three minutes late.
From across the bar, the bartender glanced at her.
With a nod, he turned his attention back to wiping the bar.
She pulled out her brand-new ‘Company’ issued iPhone 12 and checked her messages.
Nothing. She stared at her Ouzo and remembered when she first tasted the licorice liquor…
it was in Athens with Captain Simo Petras.
The man who saved her from a fate worse than death; a fate worse than hell even.
A fate similar to what would have befallen that stupid girl, Allanah…
In her own case, she had been urinated on for days, forced to defecate and bleed on herself, all in the effort to break her will.
Some of her memories were still blank until she was dragged onto that filthy Turkish ship.
Looking down, she saw that her knuckles were white from the strain of the sudden clenching.
Consciously, she relaxed them and sighed silently.
The bar’s door opened. Only using her eyes, she watched the tall, impeccably dressed, pale man scan the bar and settle his beady eyes on her. She gave him a barely perceptible nod, and he gracefully made his way over to her.
Without a word, he settled in across from her, his stone-gray eyes staring hard into her green eyes. She didn’t flinch and kept her beautiful face passive as she silently stared right back at the man.
“Jessie Veronica James…” came his dry-as-cracked-leaves voice in his high British accent.
Very quietly, she responded, “Colonel Prentice Cross of the SIS… you are late.”
“Pleasantries aside, your penchant for stating the obvious is droll, Ms. James… or should I say Ms. Anastassia Antonov?”
“As is your penchant for attempting to gain command of this meeting, Colonel…”
Colonel Cross smiled. “Perhaps my briefing on you is true.”
Jessie didn’t bite. Rather, she calmly kept eye contact with the man.
“Most agents endeavor to conceal their intimidation upon meeting me. I sense none of this… perhaps you are simply better at it.”
Without a smile or change in her expression, she answered, “You, as well as my former name you mentioned, are of no consequence. You are my means to complete my assignment.”
“A Patriot to an adopted home?”
“No more, nor less than you, Colonel.” She watched as the division commander of the British MI6 glanced at her drink. She noticed that his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. “Yes, my choice of drink is Ouzo, Colonel.”
Smiling, he replied, “I would have expected vodka.”
“One would think. May we please get down to business?”
“You Americans are continuously in such a rush…”
“So I am an American now?”
“Apparently so. Why Ouzo?” Cross smiled knowingly.
“Please, Colonel, you know why.”
“Captain Simo Petras…”
“Yes. I drink Ouzo… to honor the man who saved my life.”
“Fitting.” Cross paused as he watched Jessie’s face. “I’m surprised your superiors gave you this assignment…”
Jessie sighed at the realization that business was going to take longer than she wanted. “I’ll bite. Why are you surprised?”
“I thought it obvious. Ivanov sold you to the Irish Mafia in New York…”
Jessie fought hard to ignore those reviled feelings that name welled up in her conscious.
Though in the back of her mind, she felt what could only be described as yet another click.
Inwardly, she shook her head to herself as if to clear her thoughts of a haze that suddenly appeared.
“Maybe my section head is testing me?” Jessie offered.
“Perhaps. Down to business, shall we?”
“Please.”
“Where have you secreted Seamus Spillane?”
“He’s in the trunk of my car… unconscious and bleeding.”
Jessie watched a brief look of satisfaction cross Cross’s face.
“Our arrangement was to have him intact…”
“Flesh wound. A lesson had to be taught the hard way.”
“I see.” Cross passed Jessie a business card.
“My vehicle is a new Land Rover. I’ll not have that cretin’s blood staining the carpet.
Deliver him to the address indicated on that card.
After your interrogation, we will assume command of Mr. Spillane.
” Cross let a wicked smile slowly spread across his face.
“As agreed. You get the tab. Thank you, Colonel.” With the card in hand, Jessie left Cross watching after her as she quickly left the bar.
Jessie pulled up to the dock’s cyclone-fenced gate as indicated on Cross’s card.
She flashed her high beams three times. In moments, the barbed-wire-topped gate slid open.
Jessie drove past the gate and saw in the distance a loading dock’s door opening.
Out stepped a man dressed in dockworker clothing who beckoned her over.
By the looks of the man, she knew he was no dockworker.
With a nod, she drove into the expansive, empty warehouse.
Her senses on high, she exited her vehicle and met the dockworker at the rear of her car.
“Ma’am, I am Master Sergeant Smith, at your service. The items you requested are ready.” With her eyes, she saw where he had gestured. All seemed to be in order.
“Sergeant. My… guest is in the boot. Care to assist?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Smith smiled.
Soon they had the frightened Seamus Spillane secured to a sturdy oak chair. A single LED spotlight, sitting on the concrete floor, was blasting its glaring beam onto Seamus’s face.
“Seamus…”
“Yeah?”