CIA and the Nine Ball Tournament

CIA and the Nine Ball Tournament

  Nelson Lynch

  Copyright 2011

  Written as an assignment for the First Saturday Writers

  “Just where do you think he is?” Arbuckle placed both hands on the table. “You may as well tell us everything. We already know ninety percent.”

  Mrs. Pine tried to lean back in the chair but she was tight against the wall. “Who are you talking about? Neither of us has done anything wrong. Why would the CIA be interested in Jerry?”

  Arbuckle rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Quit wasting our time. Just tell us where your husband is?”

  She looked around her small kitchen at the other two agents. “Well, if you must know, he and Smitty are down at the pool hall. Jerry said they were going to have a few beers and shoot some nine-ball.”

  A big smile slowly formed on Arbuckle’s face. “Nine-ball, huh.” He nodded at one of the agents. “You got that down? It sounds like a code to me. It probably means a hydrogen bomb or some other weapon of mass destruction.”

  Mrs. Pine shook her head. “What on earth are you talking about? Jerry’s an English teacher. He doesn’t know anything about bombs. Just check the pool hall.” She paused a second. “Or better yet, why don’t you guys go down to the pool hall and talk to Jerry and Smitty?”

  Arbuckle backed away from the table and leaned against the wall. Another agent stepped forward. “Ma’am, I’m special agent Runyard with the CIA. We have reasons to believe your husband and Mr. Smith are involved with Osama bin Laden.”

  Mrs. Pine kept shaking her head. “Just what is the CIA? Are you sure you guys work for our government? Let me see your ID’s again. You keep asking such crazy questions.”

  “Ma’am, CIA means Counter Intelligence Agency.” He held his ID out for a few seconds. He reached into his briefcase. “I have some photos here of your husband and Mr. Smith at a terrorist training ground. We raided the camp a few months ago and found these photos.” Runyard slid the photo in front of Mrs. Pine. “There’s your husband.” He used a pencil to point. “Right there in the black turban holding the AK47 over his head. Next to him is Mr. Smith with a RPG launcher.” He paused a second and then pointed at another person. “This man, Omar bin Sufi, has been connected to the bombing of our embassy in Lower Patagonia.”

  Arbuckle leaned away from the wall. “Tell us where they are, because as you can see, they are in deep trouble. Even with their cooperation, they are looking at ten to twelve in the Big House.”

  Runyard gently placed another photo on the table along with a magnifying glass. “Here Smith is using binoculars to see what your husband is hitting on a target range.”

  Mrs. Pine picked up the first photo and used the glass. “That’s not Jerry. It doesn’t even resemble him. And that certainly isn’t Smitty.”

  “We got both of them ready to put to the wall.” Arbuckle grinned at Mrs. Pine. “Quit stalling and tell us where they are. If you keep holding back information about terrorists, you are going to be in the slammer keeping them company.” He shook his head sadly. “And don’t tell us they are down at the pool hall. They aren’t there and haven’t been there for a good while.”

  Agent Runyard slid another photo across the table. “Here they are again talking with two women in burkas. They have no shame. Fraternizing with the enemy and serving in their army.”

  Mrs. Pine shoved the photos back at Runyard. “Whoa, wait a minute. You’re going too fast. What do you mean; they’re not at the poolroom? They’ve been going there every day for the last two weeks.”

  “No, no, no.” A small smile appeared on Arbuckle’s face. “He’s been lying to you all along. We think your husband and Mr. Smith have already landed in Tehran and are making their way to Baghdad. He’s probably traveling right now with one of those so-called female freedom fighter. We expect to see them soon on the Al Jazeera Arab Network.”

  Agent Runyard slid another photo across the table. “Here they are on the prayer rugs facing Mecca.”

  “Now I know it’s not Jerry. He couldn’t pray once a week. There’s no chance of him praying five times a day. Why don’t you guys just pack your bags and leave?”

  “We can’t do that.” Arbuckle glanced at his watch. “If you don’t tell us where those two are, I may have to arrange for you to be secured in the Guantanamo Stockade. We can’t have you running around giving them information.”

  Mrs. Pine tried to stand but the table had been pushed too close. “Have you guys lost your minds? Smitty and Jerry are retired teachers down at the pool hall shooting one-shot-harrigan or keely.”

  Arbuckle nodded at the third man. “Get that down. They sound like code words for mustard gas or the e-boli virus. These guys are dangerous. We may have to let the Secretary in on this.”

  Runyard slid another photo across the table. “Here they are firing an 8.3 mortar. When was the last time you saw you husband?”

  The sudden change of subjects momentarily confused her. “This morning. He said he was going to pick up Smitty.”

  Runyard shook his head. “They haven’t been seen in seven days. Are you sure it wasn’t yesterday morning or the day before that?”

  Her voice quavered for the first time. “It could have been. Jerry and I have been married so long we don’t even notice each other. I’m an early to bed and late to rise person. Jerry is the opposite. He comes to bed late and gets up early.” She wiped at her eyes for a second. “I guess I could have missed him. I really don’t pay that much attention to his comings and goings. My memory is not quite as good as it use to be.” She stopped for a moment. “What about Smitty’s wife? She’ll know where they are.”

  Arbuckle was shaking his head the whole time. “Not a soul over there. It looks like all the Smiths have pulled up stakes and gone.” He smiled faintly. “At least seven days ago. She and those other two treacherous traitors are on the road to Baghdad right now and you’re left here to face the music.”

  She slumped down in the chair for a second and then straightened up. “You’re all mistaken. They’re not traitors. I know where they went. They went to see Smitty’s children.”

  “We haven’t been able to locate the children.” Arbuckle barely shook his head. “Do you know where they live? We can’t find them. Give us their address and we can settle this right now.”

  “I don’t know where they live. One lives in the Oak Ridge, Tennessee area and the other lives around Aberdeen, Maryland.”

  “Good Lord,” Arbuckle said wiping at his forehead. “Did you hear that? One is where our country makes atomic bombs and the other is near a chemical and biological warfare facility.” He glanced at the third agent. “Make sure you get all of this. We have to let the vice president in on this.” He leaned back against the wall and grinned. “We got us a whole nest of spies, turncoats and evil doers. I think our bulletin going to agents in the field will be to use extreme caution. If necessary, shoot on sight.”

  Mrs. Pine burst out sobbing. “What do you mean? You can’t do that. It’s against the law to shoot innocent people. Please check the pool hall again. That’s where they are.”

  Runyard slid another photo across the table. “Here’s your husband on a surveillance camera.”

  She glanced down at the photo for a second and picked it up. “This is Jerry. Where was this camera?” She studied the photo of Jerry smiling at the camera for a few seconds. “It looks like he’s in a store.”

  Runyard nodded his head. “It is. He’s buying a six-pack of beer at the local Seven-Eleven.”

  Mrs. Pine tried to slide the table away but Runyard kept pushing it against her and the wall. “What’s wrong with that? Jerry buys at least one six-pack of beer a week and the
Seven-Eleven is on the way to Smitty’s.”

  “Get that down. A convenient place to meet.” Arbuckle paused a moment while the agent was writing. “A quick place to exchange information for money.”

  “Stop! Everybody buys beer there. There’s nothing wrong with that. What is wrong with you people?”

  Runyard placed another photo in front of Mrs. Pine. “Look at the owner-operator. He’s an Arab. We think he’s originally from Morocco, Casablanca or somewhere else in the Fertile Crescent area. We’ve had him under surveillance for two years. We’re fairly sure he’s the ringleader of a terrorist group plotting to blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

  She put her finger on the man’s picture and pushed it back toward Runyard. “He’s not an Arab. He was born right here in town. His parents came here from Ethiopia.” She paused a moment and glanced at Arbuckle. “Also you guys had better get your geography straight. Morocco and Casablanca are not in the Fertile Crescent.”

  Her statement didn’t faze either one.

  Runyard gently slid the photo back. “We have a reliable quote from a pool hall patron that Jerry once said that the Bay Bridge was the worst thing that ever happened to the Eastern Shore. Your husband wished the terrorist had hit there instead of the World Trade Center.”

  She thought for a few seconds. “Well, so do I. Just think,