Chapter 9
Cain returned to his hotel room and welcomed the cool air blowing from the AC unit. He felt sticky, and his suit was soiled with sweat. He couldn’t wait to disrobe and take a cold shower. While in the shower, he kept replaying the events from that morning. Should I have paid her, or just let the police get involved? Neither scenario was ideal, but he concluded that he had made the right decision.
He hurried to meet up with Tom Jackson in the hotel’s lobby. While waiting, Cain noticed the woman he’d paid off, sipping a cocktail at the hotel bar. So much for the security guard’s promise to keep her away. He’s probably getting a kickback.
“Where we going tonight?” Tom asked.
Cain maneuvered his body to block Tom’s view of the hotel bar. “Definitely away from here. I know just the place. Saw it today while doing the security advance with the locals.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Local cops always know where to go to have a good time.”
“It’s a British pub.”
“Let’s go to a club, not a British pub.”
“Absolutely not. It’s nearby, and I’m starving for some fish-and-chips. It’ll be a chill spot for us to strategize about the way forward. We need to. That’s the most important task ahead of us.”
Cain asked the bellhop to hail a taxi. When they jumped in, Tom began running his mouth a thousand miles an hour.
“Not here,” Cain interrupted him. “We’ll be at the pub shortly. Let’s discuss it then.”
“This cabby probably don’t even speak English,” Tom commented.
“Regardless, Jackson, you’ve embarrassed me enough today.”
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll wait till we get to the pub.”
The pub was heavily accented with thick, dark wood. It was shaped like a rectangle, and British memorabilia—photographs and artifacts—adorned the walls. It was empty, not including the English expat in his sixties who said he was the owner. “What are you blokes drinking?”
“Two whiskeys,” Tom answered.
“And fish-and-chips,” Cain added. “Make the chips extra crispy, please.” He grabbed a matchbook from the bar and continued toward the back corner. He absentmindedly rubbed the matchbook in his left hand—between his fingers. He and Tom sat down at a table. “I wasn’t expecting this,” Cain said flatly, referencing the fact that the soundtrack to Grease was playing in the background from two speakers mounted on the wall.
The owner brought them their drinks.
“Must be some serious discussions going on tonight.”
“How do you reckon?” Cain asked. He caught himself feeling more suspicious than usual.
“Fellas, this place is almost empty. Yet you chose this corner. You don’t look like businessmen—too athletic for that—so I figured you’re here for the Summit of the Americas and are probably going to discuss politics or security—maybe both.”
“Good eye,” Cain said.
“I wasn’t always a bartender,” the man said. “Name’s McMillan. Call me Mac. Used to be navy intelligence. For Her Majesty, of course. I should’ve stayed in, but I fell in love with a local woman.”
“So much for being intelligent,” Tom quipped.
Cain turned to Tom. “Like you have any room to judge.” He then turned back to Mac. “I hear they’re hard to resist.”
Mac chuckled. “Yes, they are. So, I moved here and opened up this pub.”
“It’s a nice place you have,” Cain said. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s not fancy, but I’m proud of it.” Mac used the dead air to excuse himself. “Well, I’ll leave you fellas to it. Your fish-and-chips will be out shortly.”
The pub offered enough privacy for Cain and Tom to talk openly. They discussed the events that had transpired and predicted what would happen.
“The Service has a long history of partying and screwing around. We’re no different from the politicians we swore to take a bullet for,” Tom commented before gulping his drink.
“You know we’re not held to the same standard as politicians,” Cain said. “They can be as crooked as a dog’s back leg, but we carry gold badges. The public demands more from us. It doesn’t matter if you were a Secret Service agent for only a month ten years ago. If you were arrested for DUI, the headline would read ‘Ex–Secret Service Agent Arrested for Driving Drunk.’ We have to think strategically here if we’re gonna get out of this mess.”
“What do you mean? What are you thinking?”
“Well, for starters, did she ever tell you what she did for a living?”
“Nah. I just thought she was a local who wanted to party with someone on the president’s security detail. Relax, bro. We did nothing wrong. We’ll be fine.”
Cain became angrier. “We did nothing wrong? We?”
“Yeah, we did nothing wrong.”
“If we did nothing wrong, then why am I leaving before this mission is complete?” Cain continued, raising his voice. “Hell, the whole team has told you over and over to maintain a low profile. Don’t draw so much attention to the Service. You know we operate in the background, but you always find a way to put us in the spotlight.”
“You like to operate in the background. You don’t mind being a shadow.” Tom puffed out his chest and pointed to it with both index fingers. “But I’m different. I’m in the show, baby. As you like to quote, ‘To thine own self be true.’ I’m just being true to myself.”
“And to your wife and kids back home? Are you being true to them?”
“Don’t go there, bro! I love my family and provide for all their needs. They have a roof over their head and food on the table. I take care of my family.”
“What about your family here? Your Secret Service family?”
Before Tom could answer, their attention was drawn to the bar’s entrance. Three other Secret Service agents stumbled into the pub. It was apparent that this was not their first stop of the evening. Upon seeing Cain and Tom, one of them pointed and shouted in a slurred voice, “It’s the other members of the Dirty Dozen.”
With his large arm, Tom motioned for them to come toward the back. “Welcome, men!”
“Don’t call ’em over here,” Cain urged. “We still have business to discuss.”
“Plenty of time for that. We got a long flight tomorrow.” Tom turned his attention to his colleagues who had just poured in. “I was just about to challenge Cain to a game of darts. Right, Cain?”
“I’m not playing darts with you,” he said flatly. He then looked straight into Tom’s eyes. “This conversation ain’t over.”
The five agents gathered around a dartboard, but Cain didn’t play. He was too ticked off to enjoy the pastime. The other agents tossed darts and continued discussing the injustices of being recalled from their mission.
“Recalled?” Cain said. “That’s a nice way of saying kicked out, or booted.”
One of the agents was an old-timer nearing retirement. “I’m divorced, thanks to the Service. They can’t do squat to me. And they’re seriously mistaken if they think my enjoying the warmth of a lady is going to stop my retirement.”