Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (35 page)

A little squirt of adrenaline zipped through me. So much for getting out of here in a few minutes.

He continued, “I’ll just come right out and say it. I think returning this dog to his rightful owner is a very contrived excuse to slip a spy into our country. I think I should have you arrested.”

I’d expected as much. I whistled once, and the dog abruptly stopped panting. He looked up at me, his bored expression gone, his face suddenly lively and alert. I nodded and patted my lap and without hesitation, the big son-of-a-bitch jumped up on me. Jesus, he was a heavy dog.

His one hundred and twenty-five pounds had never been more evident than when his huge feet found purchase in my crotch. I grunted and smiled at the Saudi official as the dog circled in my lap, and finally got comfortable.

“Mr. Putnam—”

“Look.” I lifted the dog’s front paws, revealing his shaven belly. “Do you see the scar?”

“Yes, I—”

“This dog was used to conceal opium packets, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. He was force-fed the packets and probably drugged. He, like many other such critters, ended up in our country, where most are slaughtered, then gutted to get at the blasted packets.”

The dog was panting again. Too damned hot not to. Hell, I wanted to pant. I looked again at the sickening scar across his stomach, just a haphazard zigzag, the drug dealers intent only on getting to the packets as soon as possible, the dog be damned. And they had been focused on retrieving their loot, until he’d awakened from whatever drug-induced sleep they’d put him under. And had gone nuts on someone who’d deserved what he’d gotten.

“They kill these dogs, gut them like fish, and leave them to die. If they are merciful, they’ll their throats. If not, the poor creatures die very long, painful deaths,” I explained.

“I’m well aware of the practices of these smugglers—”

“But as you can see,” I said, “he didn’t die. He was found on a highway in a pool of his own blood with something very interesting in his stomach.”

The Saudi customs official, despite himself, looked from the dog to me. I waited.

“Well?” he asked. “What did they find?”

Actually, they’d found three things in his stomach, but I was going to mention only one.

“A finger,” I said.

“A finger?”

“Yes, a human finger. He bit it off the hand of a drug smuggler.”

“And the dog escaped, finger and all?”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

“And then, he led you back to the drug dealers,” said the customs agent, getting into it.

“Straight to them.”
Except for the one missing a finger.

“And you caught the bastards.”

“Yes. But not until after a massive gunfight.”

“A gunfight?”

“Four dealers were shot. I was grazed under my chin.” I showed him my healing scar, still white and raised.

“By Allah! That was close!”

“You’re telling me.”

“And to thank the dog for his heroics, your agency decided to return him to his home country.”

“Not just to his home country, but to his home.”

“A wonderful story, Mr. Putnam, but I think you are full of dung.”

“Well, it was worth a try, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve heard better.” He briefly put a hand under his desk. “And now, I’ve activated a silent alarm, and even as we speak, guards are coming to my assistance.”

“That’s too bad. I thought we were friends.”

“Friends? One question: Did you cut open this dog to aid your story?”

“No,” I said, “everything I told you about the dog is true.”

“But I thought you just said—”

“Oh, I just made up the part about being shot and working for the INS,” I said. “You see, I actually
am
a spy.”

He was just reaching for something inside a drawer when I leaped out of my chair, dove across his desk, and wrestled the man to the floor. A few well-placed blows later, the agent was out cold. The big dog gave me a surprised look, as if waiting for my cue.

I heard feet running outside.

“Time to beat it, pooch.”

Woof!

“Exactly.”

First, I locked the office door. Second, I tried the small window behind his desk. Stuck, and stuck good. So, I picked up the office chair and hurled it through the glass, which shattered nicely.

Office chair: 50 dinars.

Window: 30 dinars.

Freedom: Priceless.

Pounding on the door behind me was followed by shouts. I used a trashcan to quickly clear the window of any remaining shards and whistled for my charge. He promptly jumped into my arms, and I helped him through the window. He squatted on the sill briefly, barked once, then leaped out. I followed immediately behind, although I didn’t bark.

Behind me, the office door burst open.

he chase through the airport in Riyadh was a wild one, full of near misses, blocked exits, locked doors, and cunning, if not fortuitous, escapes.
I’m looking at you, inattentive baggage handler with the massive pile of suitcases, certainly enough for a man and well-trained dog to hide within.

Being the plucky hero that I am, I raided the closest giant wheeled suitcase, donned a remarkably nice-fitting, long-sleeved, ankle-length robe called a
thobe
, ditched the remaining contents of the luggage in a trashcan, and coaxed War Daddy into the giant rolling suitcase. Yes, the dog’s name was War Daddy. He went in with some hesitation. I sent him a mental image that all would be okay. He responded by a long, wet lick across my forehead that warmed my heart, and in he went—when the convoy of suitcases stopped, out we went, right past the bored baggage handler who’d been looking the other way. Dressed as a local and pulling my heavy wheeled suitcase behind me, I hurried past him, nodding and smiling, and headed out into the sunshine and the intense heat.

I know the language fluently, which was why I had been handpicked for this assignment. I know Saudi Arabia as well, having served here as part of a military operation, years ago. What I hadn’t expected was to be accused of being a spy, although we were trained to think on our feet during every worst-case scenario.

Which was why I’d had the foresight to call an agent friend of mine who worked for the U.S. Embassy and asked him to wait for me at the curb. There he was, leaning on the car, checking his watch and looking bored, arms crossed and sweating in the heat. I nodded at him, and stepped past him and into the back seat of the limo.

“Hey, you can’t—holy shit, is that
you
, Alan?”

I said nothing and pulled War Daddy’s suitcase inside with me. Before shutting the door, I winked at my friend and said, in perfect Arabic, “Of course. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

My friend, always up for an adventure, gave me a lopsided grin, shut the door, and hustled around the car. And none too soon either. Through the side window, I saw guards fanning out, scanning the length of the passenger pick-up area for a very large American with a very large dog. I sat back and grinned as I unzipped the suitcase next to me to give the occupant some fresh air.

A furry face poked out, panting, and, I swear to God, grinning.

any nights, many adventures.

War Daddy and I worked our way through Riyadh, evading police and the military, blending in when possible, and hiding when necessary. I planned our big push into the interior. The interior of Saudi Arabia might as well be the interior of hell itself. Heat and fire and sand and death. I knew this from experience, and I was not looking forward to it. Shortly, after many subtle inquiries and exchanged dinars, I paid our way onto a desert caravan that was hauling clothing, sneakers, and, I suspected, weapons.

I had long since memorized the dog’s file. Yes, the dog had a file. His name was War Daddy. He’d actually had on a dog collar when they’d found him. Some bastards had filled him up with packets of opium. He was supposed to have been killed. Opened up, emptied of his cache, and then destroyed. He’d bitten off the finger of a captor and had escaped with his guts hanging out. My kind of dog. War Daddy. Yeah, the name fit.

And now, here he was by my side, three days into a desert caravan plodding across the scorched earth. Panting, and strong as could be. His fur was still growing back where the vets had shaved him and stitched him up. It didn’t take him long to eat normally again. Now, he was as strong as me, and nearly as heavy… 125 pounds of pure muscle, teeth, and slobber. The strongest dog I’d ever seen. With the strongest will to live, too.