Jennings had thought creating the corruption branch of the CIA was a political move by the president-foolish and a waste of taxpayer dollars. There was no way that one group within a government agency could get much done in the way of shutting down internal corruption. The U.S. government had thousands of people all over the world. The manpower alone would cost tens of millions each year.
Townsend was a scumbag. Jennings found it extremely ironic that the man they put in charge of the corruption division was probably involved with more unethical behavior than nearly anyone else. The other irony was that Eric had been an honest agent for most of his career. But decades of a flat salary and too many headaches had gotten the better of him. He wanted to retire on an island somewhere and play golf or sip margaritas on the beach. This “tool” could change all that if he got in the way.
“What do you want, Sam?” He went straight to the point, irritation clear in his voice.
The young agent helped himself to the seat in the booth across from Jennings just as Bobby came back to the table.
“Your food will be out in a second, Mr. J.” He lowered his eyebrows at the new companion who had just taken a seat. The bartender was obviously confused as to why the man had left the bar to come over. “You need anything else, friend?”
“No, Bobby. He’ll just be a minute,” Eric answered for him.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” Sam added, never taking his eyes off of the man across from him.
Sensing something personal was going on, the old bartender slinked back to the kitchen.
Again Jennings asked, “What do you want, Sam?”
“Eric,” his voice was condescending. “Relax. What makes you think I want something?”
The music changed on the speaker system from a slow, Irish ballad to something a little more upbeat with a wild Celtic fiddle driving the melody.
“Because you’re always up to something,” Eric responded coldly after taking another draught of his beer.
“Me? I don’t think so. After all, that’s what my department does. We figure out who in the government is up to something.”
“Convenient for you. No one there to checks your tracks, huh?”
Townsend laughed for a moment and looked over towards the woman at the bar. She was spying on both of them through the mirror behind the drink station. He turned his attention back to Jennings. “What are you up to, Eric? We know you have agents out in Vegas right now and another team that just headed to New Mexico. What I want to know is, why? There haven’t been any missions filed for that region recently. So, you’re up to something. You haven’t gone rogue on us have you?”
Jennings resented the implication, even though it was true. Who was this little prick to think he could just waltz in there to his favorite pub and start throwing accusations around?
One thing Sam said caught him off guard, though. True, Jennings had people in Vegas. New Mexico on the other hand, he knew nothing about, which made him wonder who else may have been involved in the game. Townsend was thorough. If he knew about the agents out west he had been following their actions for a while. What Jennings didn’t know was for how long. He’d tried to keep a more administrative role in the whole operation, but with a hands-off approach. The man who called himself The Prophet had asked for his top operatives and had paid handsomely. A professional mercenary, Will Hastings, had handled everything, even communications directly with the mysterious man himself. The trail was beginning to lead back to Washington, which meant Eric Jennings was going to have to take more control of the situation. At the moment, he decided to redirect.
“I’m under strict orders not to reveal that information.”
“Oh, come on,” Sam said loudly. “You know good and well I have access to everything you do.” He had a pleading look on his face that backed up what he was saying, as if it should be extremely obvious.
Although, the fact that Sam was aware of their southwest presence meant he could get his own team on the trail eventually. Eric guessed Sam would rather not do that if he didn’t need to.
“Why are we having this conversation, Sam?” he said with a smirk.
It was a good point, one that obviously caught the younger agent off guard.
Since Townsend didn’t respond, he continued, “Let me guess, Sam, you want less corruption or more opportunity to participate in it.” The statement was lathered in cynicism.
Townsend’s eyes narrowed. “Listen to me, Eric. I can pull the plug on every single operation you’re running right now. The only person with more authority in this government than me right now is the president himself. And last I checked, he’s signing off on my direct deposit.”
He was right. Townsend could shut him down. Rather than rattle the hornet’s nest, Eric decided to offer a carrot.
“What I’m about to tell you stays between you and me.” Eric looked around, feigning paranoia. “I’ve been investigating the operations of a secret society. They were fairly inactive for a long time but then a few years ago they blipped back onto the radar. I think they’re looking for something, something big.”
Townsend leaned in closer, obviously interested in what he was hearing. “And what might that be?”
Jennings continued, “Did you hear about the golden chamber they found down in Georgia a few weeks ago?”
Sam nodded that he had. The discovery had made national news. It was like a real life Indiana Jones tale.
“This group was there. But they’re not just interested in a golden chamber. There’s something else out there. Something much bigger.”
“What would be bigger than that treasure? Its estimated value is thought to be in the hundreds of millions.”
Jennings nodded in agreement. “Chump change compared to what they’re going after.”
Both men sat silent for a moment, Jennings letting the words sink in.
The kitchen door swung open, shattering the silence with a loud creak and accompanying sounds of dishes rattling.
Bobby brought the plate over and set it down in front of Jennings. The bartender smiled as he slinked away, apparently knowing he wasn’t to take part in the conversation.
Jennings changed gears. “They have an excellent Ruben here,” he said as he grabbed the thick sandwich and took a huge bite. He added while chewing, “They make it with pastrami instead of corned beef. Adds a little kick.” He set the sandwich down on the plate, thick pieces of beef slathered in a creamy, yellowish dressing dangled out from between the slices of marbled rye bread.
“You really should try it,” He continued as he offered Townsend a small piece of the concoction.
“I don’t eat after seven,” he said sternly, not amused that the conversation had turned to the topic of food.
Jennings shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stuffed another huge bite into his mouth then washed it down with another sip of beer.
“You obviously think me a fool, Eric,” Sam placed his elbows on the table and leaned in closer. “I want to know what you’re up to.”
“And you want a piece of whatever it is. Don’t you?” The snide remark was accompanied by a sarcastic grin.
Townsend ignored the jab. “If you are using justice department funding and personnel for some wild treasure hunt or to somehow jack a score from this so-called ‘secret society’ then you are going down for it. I’ll personally make sure of it.”
The menace in his voice was threatening. Eric Jennings wasn’t a man to be easily bothered, but Townsend’s implication sent a momentary chill up his spine.