Chapter Three: A Letter from a Friend
Donald Canardino sipped his drink and tried to steady his breathing. He wasn't prone to nerves, but he knew the next moments would be critical. He always felt at least a little on edge when the hunt was close to an end. The man who sat across from him gave a nod to the bartender. Without a word he stopped wiping the bar and ushered the other patrons out the door.
"Mr. Johnson," said the man on the other side of the table. "I want you to speak plainly. Why did you join the Whitegloves?"
Donald took a breath, taking on the persona of Mark Johnson. "I want to make the world a better place. I want us all to be free from the regime."
A lie within a lie. The man frowned. "If I wanted the party line, I would have joined the regime. Tell me the truth."
Donald paused for what he judged to be an appropriately long time. "I had a twin brother. I loved him more than anyone. We were inseparable."
"And then?"
The Whiteglove could see the pain in Donald's eyes. Donald's voice shook as he spoke.
"And then they killed him. No trial, no questions, just a bullet."
There was a silence. A drop of water fell into the sink behind the bar.
"So it's revenge?"
"You could say that," said Donald. "I don't care how, I don't care when, but I'm gonna make them pay. And you can help me do that."
The man didn't say anything. He looked over Donald's face with scrutiny, trying to tell fact from fiction. He detected no lie because there was none. The best lie was always a half truth.
"You've led your cell very well Mr. Johnson. Your operational security skills and your discipline are exactly what we're looking for."
This was his moment. Donald felt an instant of hesitation and fear, but cast it aside.
"I have to confess," said Donald, "I don't feel very good about our chances. The regime is so well equipped, and we've got… well, nothing."
The man smiled. "You might be surprised."
Donald cocked his head questioningly.
"There may come a day when I call on you and your cell to act," said the man. "And on that day I may even be compromised. So you need to know where to go when it's time for us to make our move. Follow me."
Internally, Donald felt a wave of relief. He had done it.
The two men left the bar at close to midnight and walked down the dimly lit street to the Whiteglove man's automobile. They entered and the man cranked it to life. Thirty minutes of tense silence later, the two arrived at an old warehouse on the edge of town. It seemed abandoned except that the gate around it was locked with a shiny new padlock. The Whiteglove fished a key out of his coat pocket and opened it. Taking a gas lantern from the automobile, the man led Donald through the darkness to the door of the warehouse.
Donald tried not to gasp as the rotted wooden doors creaked open. It was much bigger than he had expected. Row after row of metal shelves were lined with wooden crates, each unlabeled and nailed shut. The Whiteglove picked a crowbar up from one of the shelves and pried one open. Holding up the lantern revealed that it was packed to the brim with ammunition.
"We're not so ill equipped as you might have been led to believe," said the man.
Donald tried to calculate the right amount of amazement that Mark Johnson would be feeling right now. It was probably about the same as Donald Canardino was feeling.
"Is this whole warehouse full of weapons?"
"Among other things. We've got ten submachine guns, eighty rifles, and over a hundred sticks of dynamite. We also have two portable radio transceivers and some first aid supplies."
"I can't believe it," said Donald.
"You wanted to strike at the regime," said the man. "Now you can."
"But I don't understand," said Donald. "If we have all of this, why not make our move now?"
"Have patience, Johnson. The revolution is coming, and when it does, this storehouse will be here for you and your cell. But there's a time and a place for everything. Even with all that we have here, we'd still lose if we struck now. We have to wait until the perfect moment."
"I understand," said Donald. "You can trust me to wait. And when you call on me, I'll be ready."
Donald woke up the next morning and performed his victory routine. First, he shaved his beard and his mustache, and cut his hair short. Then he washed the fake scars and moles from his face with some hot water and almost an hour of scrubbing. Finally, he took Mark Johnson's fake glasses and clothes and stored them in an old chest. It would be nice to get to wear his hat again. This had been a long assignment. Donald put on his suit and straightened his tie. He shot a quick glance at his image in a dirty old mirror and then set off for the Central Intelligence building.
By design, most people in the building didn't know who he was. Regular employees used badges to get through the various security checkpoints, but Donald carried no badge. Instead, he carried a one use code written on a piece of paper in the director's handwriting. The guards knew what it meant. They checked it against their own, and then both papers were burned.
Donald checked his watch. He was five minutes early. The director's secretary told him to enter anyway. The inside of the office was made of beautiful polished wood, but had no windows. The director stood as Donald entered, and moved immediately towards an old glass bottle of whiskey .
"Sir," said Donald, nodding his head in greeting.
"Mr. Canardino. I understand you've got some information for me. Come, have a drink."
Donald wasn't the type to drink in the morning, but he knew better than to refuse a polite gesture from the director. He took his time, savoring the whiskey, and complimenting it. Finally, he gave his report.
"As you can imagine," he said, "This warehouse poses an immense security threat. It's also possible that it's not the only one, but I am confident that it's the biggest stockpile the Whitegloves have."
"You've done well," said the director. "So now comes the hard part. How do you recommend we respond?"
Donald wasn't used to being asked his opinion by high ranking political officers. It was possible this was a test. He intended to pass.
"I don't think we should respond," said Donald.
"Oh?" said the director, bemused.
"As I said before, the stockpile is a grave threat, but we can't afford to waste intelligence. If we raided it now, we would cripple the Whitegloves and buy ourselves a bit of breathing room, but it wouldn't last long. They'll always get new members, and they'll always find a way to get new weapons."
"But aren't we putting ourselves at risk by allowing them to keep these weapons? Why not buy ourselves that breathing room?"
"Because we've secured an advantage that we might need to use one day. Right now, we know where the weapons are. If we raid it, we lose that information. As long as my colleagues in the secret police are doing their jobs, we'll know when they plan to strike. That's when we clip their wings, but not before.
"So your plan is to let them think they're in control, right up until the last second?"
Donald nodded.
The director gave a smile and took a sip of whiskey. "I concur with your assessment. You've got a devious mind, Mr. Canardino. We're going to need a mind like that in the coming days."
"Sir?"
"I'd like to brief you on your next assignment," said the director, revealing a small file.
Donald folded his hands behind his back and stood at attention.
"Here's what we know. Two days ago, a man guilty of embezzling government funds escaped from prison. Apparently he just walked out. It's not clear how."
Donald furrowed his brow. "That's certainly usual. But it's quite a bit different from my usual assignments."
"I wasn't finished," said the director coldly. "Earlier that same day, a man walked into a bank and requested thirteen gold bars. The teller put them in a bag and he left with them. We didn't even know they were missing until yesterday. We've arrested the teller on suspicion of being his accomplice."
"You think there's a connection?" asked Donald.
"Nothing indicates that there is. But that's not all that happened. On the same day, two elephants, three lions, and seven monkeys escaped from the Capital Zoo. It was the most animals that have ever simultaneously escaped from any zoo. They all escaped in seemingly different ways."
"I'm not sure I follow," said Donald. "What exactly am I supposed to take from this?"
"I'm not a religious man, Mr. Canardino," said the director, "but when three miracles happen on the same day, even I start to pay attention. I don't think we can rule out the possibility that this is a coordinated destabilization attempt of some kind."
"Wouldn't it be more reasonable to assume it's just coincidence?" asked Donald.
"It well might be. That's what I want you to figure out. I have my suspicions."
Intrigued, Donald pressed for more. "I'll investigate further, but what makes you think there's any connection between these three?"
The director sighed. "This isn't in the file, but between you and me, the propaganda bureau has been working constant overtime for the past week. Usually we have to make up news. Now we have so much of it that we don't have time to report on all of it."
The director rotated his whiskey glass on the table playfully, as if puzzling out the way the drink sloshed around would somehow uncover the answers he was looking for.
"Something is happening, and I want you to find out what. If it's a threat to us, I need to know. If it's something we can exploit, I need to know that too. You will report directly to me on this."
"Understood sir."
Donald didn't have to start work right away, but he knew that the trail would go cold quickly. He brought the file back to his apartment and tried to decide which mystery to investigate first.
He quickly cast aside the zoo one. It just didn't fit with the others. Releasing animals from a zoo would be far from the most efficient way to sow chaos, so it likely wasn't Whitegloves. It might even have been nothing more than simple negligence on part of the zookeepers.
The prison one was probably corruption. The prisoner likely bribed someone or other to let him out. This was closer to the kind of thing Donald usually did, but still a little low level for his tastes. If the criminal had been, say, a convicted murderer or a Whiteglove, things would get more exciting, but a low level white collar criminal probably had no connection to anyone worth hunting.
This left the bank. Now here was a case that might bear some fruit. The fact that the teller didn't report the missing gold meant she was probably a sympathizer at the very least. If Donald could find a way to flip her on whoever she was in league with, there might be some worthy prey at the end of this. Donald set out for the bank.
The teller wasn't there of course, but Donald found it was always helpful to get a sense of the scene before talking to anyone. It helped to visualize their story and spot any inconsistencies. The actual bank was mostly uninteresting. It was a lobby, a vault room, and a couple of offices. Donald made a mental note of its features and left for the police station. After handing the code he received from the director to the ranking officer, he soon found himself in a dimly lit interrogation room across from a young woman.
"Are you secret police?" were the first words out of her mouth.
Donald smiled with amusement. "If the secret police went around answering that question honestly, they'd just be the regular police."
"Please, you have to explain to them that this is a mistake."
"Slow down," said Donald, "I'm still trying to figure out if it is a mistake. Let me hear your side of it."
"I wouldn't have given it to him if he wasn't one of you!" cried the woman. "You can't put me in jail for doing my job!"
"Wait, hold on," said Donald. "You're saying the thief was secret police?"
"That's what I've been telling them, but they don't believe me. They just keep saying I shouldn't have given him anything without an ID and an account number. But you know that's not how it works!"
"How does it work?"
"Every Tuesday I get an agent of the secret police coming in and requesting a stipend. My boss told me if the secret police ask for anything and give you a director's code, you give it to them without asking questions."
"And did the man have a director's code?"
"Yes," said the teller.
"And you checked it against your own?"
"Yes."
"And it matched? Handwriting and everything?"
"I mean, yeah, I think."
Donald's eyes widened. "You think?"
"Well I didn't look that closely at it, but I'm pretty sure it matched."
"You don't think it's important to be totally sure who you're giving thousands of dollars worth of gold to?"
"You can't blame me for this," said the woman. "If it weren't for all you secret police and your shady, under the table requests, I would have just followed normal protocol and none of this would have happened…"
"Can you tell me what the man looked like?" asked Donald.
"He looked like secret police," said the woman. Seeing the annoyance in Donald's face, she continued her description. "Short dark hair, white skin, mid thirties. Wore a hat like yours. You all wear the same type of hat."
Donald smiled. She was right. The nondescript suit and hat were the trademark of the secret police, effective for scaring the public when not undercover.
"If what you say is true," said Donald, "Then we've either got a rogue secret police agent, or someone who dressed like him."
"It wasn't just the clothes," insisted the teller. "He was secret police. I'm sure of it. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, everything. I've gotten enough strange requests from you people that I know how to spot you."
"Ok," said Donald, "I believe you. Unfortunately this means you're guilty of criminal negligence and there's no way you'll see less than ten years for this."
The woman started to cry.
"On the other hand," said Donald, "If this is some kind of Whiteglove conspiracy that you just got caught up in, we might be able to work something out."
The woman momentarily stopped sobbing to look up in terror.
"If you give me a name or any kind of lead, I can get your sentence down to five years," continued Donald. "And if that information results in the capture of even a single Whiteglove, I can personally guarantee that you won't see a day of jail time."
The woman resumed her sobbing, and continued to insist that she knew nothing. Donald could tell by her reaction that she had never even considered that the man she gave the gold to might be a revolutionary. What a shame, thought donald. He thanked the teller for her cooperation and stood up to leave.
"This is your fault!" she cried.
Donald paused at the door without turning around, as if considering a response. But he said nothing and left. What a waste of time, he thought to himself. Maybe the prison case would be more fruitful.
After driving an hour and a half in his automobile to where the prison was, Donald surveyed the scene. No obvious ways to escape, he noted. High fences, guards with rifles, only one entrance. The typical medium security prison. Unlike the teller, the guards looked very carefully at his director's code, and eyed him with fear and suspicion. They knew what he was here for. He was directed immediately to the warden.
The warden was a portly man with a flushed face, who filled the room at all times with chatter. Just as it seemed he was going to finish speaking, he would interrupt himself and continue. Donald knew he wasn't going to learn anything from a scared patsy who knew his job was at stake. He asked to interview some of the guards instead. The warden selected the guard he probably figured was the most incompetent, in hopes that the sacrifice would appease Donald. The kid was understandably frightened.
"How did the prisoner escape?" asked Donald plainly.
The guard shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "I don't really know, sir."
Donald could read the room. He asked the other guards to leave and then leaned in close, his voice almost a whisper.
"Listen, between you and me, you're not on the hook for any of this. No matter what happened, this was the responsibility of the warden, and he's going down no matter what. I know you were just doing your job and following his orders, so just tell me what happened and I'll make sure you keep your job."
The guard let out a sigh of relief and visibly relaxed. "Well, it's kind of an open secret how it happened."
"How do you mean?"
The guard narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out how much Donald already knew. "Nobody's saying it, but all of us guards knew. It was this business with the prison inspectors."
"I don't understand," said Donald. "Why don't you start from the beginning."
"You know about what happened at Markand, right?"
"No," said Donald, "Enlighten me."
"Well last year there were two prison escapes from Markand Prison in the same month. It was a huge embarrassment. None of the guards were following procedure and there was hardly any security. Ever since then the government has been cracking down on us prisons."
"Ok," said Donald, "but what does that have to do with this escape?"
"Well for the past year these prison inspectors have been all anyone's talking about. It got out that they were sending secret inspectors disguised as prisoners to do an audit and test security."
Donald nodded attentively.
"So last week one of them finally showed up to our prison. He didn't say he was an inspector, but everyone knew."
"Can you describe what he looked like?"
"Sure," said the guard. "Grey hair, late sixties. Wore a suit. He asked to look at every cell, so we took him past the prisoners. Then he found one who looked pretty similar to him. They coulda been brothers. He asked to go in the cell with the prisoner and told the guards outside to look the other way."
"What did he do?"
"They didn't see," said the guard, "but everyone knows. They switched clothes and the inspector took his place in the cell."
"What happened to the prisoner then?"
"The guards took him outside, where a prisoner transport vehicle was waiting. They passed him off to the transport guards and took him to another prison. So you see, we didn't let a prisoner escape. Not really."
"You're saying that the man you let out was an undercover prison inspector, and the real prisoner is at some other prison right now?"
The guard nodded, happy that Donald seemed to understand. "A week later, he said his work here was done and that it was time for us to let him out, so we did."
"You didn't think that was maybe part of his test?" asked Donald.
"We did," said the guard. "But his partner came to pick him up, so we figured it was over."
"What did the partner look like?"
"Dark skinned, early twenties. Same kinda clothes as the inspector wore."
Donald took a breath and mulled this over. "This is all very convoluted."
"Now you know how we feel," said the guard.
Donald had what he needed. He assured the man he would keep his job, despite not knowing whether it was true. After corroborating the story with a few other guards, he went to the Bureau of Records. There was no record of a prisoner transfer to or from any prison on the day the guards said the switch happened. None of the guards had recognized any of the people in the prisoner transport vehicle. Donald was out of leads. He begrudgingly paid a visit to the zoo.
Out of all of the people he had talked to today, the zookeepers were the only ones who didn't seem terrified of him. In fact, they seemed thankful to have someone to talk to about the incident, and Donald got the impression that they were eager to have someone confirm their sanity.
"We've never seen anything like it," said the zookeeper, smiling nervously. "Three different species loose, all on the same day."
"But you know how they got out?" asked Donald.
"Yeah. Each one had a different method. The elephants built a makeshift ramp out of dirt to get out of the pit, and then found a weak spot on the fence where they could push it over. The tigers waited until feeding time and then pounced on keeper. They didn't hurt her at all, they just scared her and then made a break for it while the gate was still open."
Donald scribbled a few notes in a small book. "And the monkeys?"
"Apes," corrected the zookeeper. "Monkeys are the ones with tails."
Donald intentionally ignored this comment.
"We have an overhead wire that they can climb across. They dropped down from it."
"An overhead wire?" asked Donald. "Isn't that kind of a big gap in your security?"
"Well you see, it's very high up. The orangutans know that an almost twenty meter drop would hurt them, so they usually have the good sense not to fall."
"Did it hurt them?"
"Well not this time, because they found a trash can filled with paper and used it to cushion their fall."
Donald furrowed his brow. "They dropped down into a trash can?"
"That's correct. They formed a chain to reduce the distance they'd fall and then swung so that they would land in the trash can. They went down one at a time."
"Have you ruled out human involvement?" asked Donald. "Maybe someone moved the trash can."
"It was in its usual spot," said the zookeeper. "For there to be human involvement it would have to be someone who could talk to animals."
Donald gave the man a scathing look that implied he wasn't interested in crackpot theories. "Are all of these animals smart enough to do this sort of thing normally?"
"We expect this sort of thing from great apes. They're close to humans in intelligence. But the elephants and the tigers having such an organized plan was surprising to us. I guess they're smarter than we give them credit for."
"And I take it all of the animals are now accounted for?"
"Yes," said the zookeeper proudly.
"How did you get them all back?"
"They didn't go far," explained the zookeeper. "Once they escaped they didn't really know what to do with themselves. That's part of what was so strange about this in the first place. Usually the animals don't try to escape. This is where they get fed, and they know the zookeepers. There's nothing they want outside of their enclosures."
"I see," said Donald, his tone of voice betraying his disinterest. "That's all the questions I have for now. You can send a letter to this address if you learn anything that indicates human involvement."
Donald spent the rest of the evening at his apartment. He puzzled over the files and the notes he had taken. None of it made much sense. As far as he could tell, there were no connections of any kind. Of course it was possible that the man who stole the gold was working for the same people as the man who broke out of prison, but none of the descriptions matched up, and the two events took place on opposite sides of town. His Whiteglove contacts and street informants would have given him something if this were all one big conspiracy. The most logical answer was that none of these incidents were related and it was just a coincidence.
The worst part was that Donald didn't even have any suspects. In the first two cases it seemed there were criminals, but with the vague descriptions the witnesses had given him, there wasn't a lot to go on. Donald hated the idea of returning to the director with nothing to show for his work. Eventually, after an incredibly long day, he put the file away and went to sleep.
The next morning, Donald was incredibly surprised to find a letter in the mailbox outside his apartment. This was odd mainly because no one, not even the director of Central Intelligence, knew where he lived. The apartment was listed under an alias, and his landlord and neighbors didn't have the faintest idea of what he did for a living. Even more surprising still was the name on the outside of the letter.
"Mr. Donald Canardino," the envelope read. Donald could count on one hand the number of people who knew his real name, and all of them were extremely good at keeping secrets. Looking shiftily about, Donald snatched the letter and returned to the privacy of his apartment to open it.
It was written in lovely penmanship, likely a woman's hand. The return address was a part of town about twenty minutes away from his apartment by automobile, but Donald recognized neither the address nor the name signed at the bottom. The content of the letter was as follows:
Dear Agent Canardino,
It seems you have recently become involved in a number of strange events occurring across the city. I have no doubt you have questions. I would be happy to provide the answers you seek, but I must ask that I deal with you and you alone. Please arrive at 2103 Maynard Place between the hours of 9am and 8pm on any day except Sunday, and kindly ask any associates of yours to wait outside. I am certain that we can come to a resolution that benefits all parties involved.
Your friend,
G. Goof.