The Last Surgeon

hated the smell-the odiferous stench of beasts, pissing on straw beds, buzzing with flies. Something about the rank smell reminded him of the majority of the vets who relentlessly harassed his office begging for handouts.

He assumed that his intense distaste for the place went back to the trips he had taken there with Denise and the girls before she had left and poisoned them against him. But it really didn’t matter. He hated the place and that was that.

Why his CIA contact had picked the zoo as his meeting point he had no idea. An unfortunate coincidence was his best guess, but by no means his only one. They had ways of knowing things-everything. It was what they did.

Apart from receiving a mysterious iPod, delivered to him via interoffice mail the day after taking the assignment, this meeting was the most spylike thing he’d done. The device came with a single preloaded song, titled simply “Play Me.” By listening to that track, MacCandliss learned how to use the iPod as a two-way radio, as well as how to arrange a rendezvous with his contact in the event of trouble. The song vanished from the iPod after one listen. It was very Mission Impossible, and MacCandliss loved being a part of it all, even if only a peripheral part. Now, though, there was legitimate trouble.

MacCandliss had never had reason to use the emergency number before. After dialing, he hung up at the sound of a tone and synced the iPod with his computer, as he had been instructed. The sync operation added a new track to the iPod playlist. It wasn’t a song, but a computer voice detailing the specific location at the zoo, and the time when his contact would be waiting. He synced the iPod again to erase the track.

His instructions were to proceed into the zoo from the Lot B entrance at precisely eleven o’clock, buy a box of Cracker Jack, and then take Olmsted Walk past the Reptile Discovery Center. At that point, he was to put the iPod headphones on and await additional instructions. MacCandliss wondered about the early hour. He had heard that crowds were the friend of the Agency. To his surprise, there were already hordes of people strolling the paved walkways, along with field trips that included what seemed to be every grammar and middle school student within fifty miles of the city.

Coincidence? Doubtful.

This was the first time in over five years that MacCandliss had set foot inside the place. Not coincidentally, it had also been more than five years since he had seen, or even spoken to Melissa, seventeen, and Cassie, now fifteen. La Bitch had made certain of that. Years of bad-mouthing him and accusing him of abuse had the girls acting as if he was a cobra. His only regret now was not having smacked Denise more often when they were married. At least then the girls would have something to get over with their therapists.

Feeling as uncomfortable as if he were trying on new shoes, MacCandliss continued to walk the park. The heat was forecast to be near record high and he wished he had dressed lighter. He saw a boy, about six, standing in front of the glass-enclosed gorilla yard. The child clung to the string of his red balloon with one hand while slurping down a slush he held with the other. The toxic neon blue drink had stained the bottom half of his face. MacCandliss had little patience for children-even when his daughters were small. As he neared, the boy ducked under the guard railing and banged on the glass.

“Hi, gorilla!” the boy called out. “Can you say hello?”

The boy’s mother, a modestly dressed, somewhat frumpy woman in her late thirties, knelt down beside the youth to encourage her child’s exuberance. MacCandliss cringed.

“It’s not a parrot,” he said to the child. “It’s an ape and apes don’t talk.”

The boy spun around, but moved too quickly and accidentally let go of his balloon. MacCandliss watched as the diminishing red dot shrank into the cloudless sky.

Another reason to hate zoos, MacCandliss decided. Balloons.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the boy’s mother snapped.

“But it was nevertheless, madam, the truth,” he said, handing her a ten. “Good day.”

The truth.

His job was all about sifting through a dung heap of lies searching for it. How many vets had embellished their psychiatric symptoms just to steal from the taxpayers by way of the government, MacCandliss wondered as he strolled off in victory. What he hated most about his job at the VA were the times when he was forced to be the liars’ enabler. It sickened him. What he enjoyed most was blocking PTSD benefit pay and watching how fast a seemingly helpless, hapless vet found sustainable work.

Of course standing up to the PTSD sissies was an unpopular position within the VA, though he knew of other bureaucrats who secretly felt the same way he did. Support for crooks left the best impression with his superiors, along with the highest probability for promotion. The key was doing things by the book… but precisely by the book. As long as the denial of benefits appeared to fit within regulatory guidelines, the claims administrator who paid out the least was the one who got the most.

But the call from Jericho, now years ago, had shown him that there were possible shortcuts if a man were willing to take some chances, and accepting Jericho’s proposal had been a no-brainer.

Now, for the first time since becoming part of the operation, his future was under attack. There had been a security breach at the Vermont Avenue VA office. He adjusted his iPod headphones.

“Hello?” he said softly. “Anybody there?”

Silence.

He continued along Olmsted Walk, listening for his contact. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He was just passing underneath the heavy overhead wires by which the orangutans traversed the road from one cage to another when a man’s deep voice spoke to him.

“Look up,” the voice said.

MacCandliss did as instructed and immediately spied three hideously ugly orangutans, traveling hand over hairy hand across the O Line from the Think Tank to the Great Ape House on the opposite side of the walkway.

“Beautiful creatures, aren’t they,” the voice said. “I didn’t want you to miss that.”

“Where are you?” MacCandliss asked.

“I’m here. That’s all you need to know.”

“Jericho?”

“Call me that if you wish. Just keep walking. You don’t have to speak so loudly. Your iPod was put together by people who know what they’re doing. Don’t move your lips too much and you’ll appear as though you’re singing to yourself. Understand?”

Cloak-and-dagger, MacCandliss thought. These guys love cloak-and- dagger. He couldn’t tell if this was the same man who had initially contacted him on his unlisted home phone, offering him a chance to help his country and his bank account. In exchange for his services, MacCandliss was promised a significant jump in job grade and salary level. A no-brainer. Two days later, he was called into his supervisor’s office and informed he’d been promoted.

“Proceed to Lemur Island,” the voice said.

“Aren’t those the animals that would follow each other anywhere, even off a cliff?”

“That would be a lemming, Mr. MacCandliss, and it’s a myth that the rodents commit mass suicide. Clearly, you’re not much of an animal lover.”

“Only if they’re grilled medium rare and smothered with onions.”

“Very well, Mr. MacCandliss. Assume that I can see you. Stop when you reach Lemur Island and look at the exhibit while we talk. Under no circumstances are you to turn around. Do not try to figure out who or where I am. Is that understood?”

MacCandliss felt a surge of anger. He was treated like one of them, but only when it suited their purposes. Well, they were anonymous and he was set to take a fall if the security breach wasn’t straightened out. All he could do was to follow Jericho’s instructions and supply them with some names. Perhaps it was time to up the ante on his services.

When MacCandliss was in position at Lemur Island, the voice again spoke to him through his headset.

“You sent word you needed to speak with us?”

“At the weekly staff meeting at my office, we discussed security measures in the wake of a breach at the Vermont Avenue building.”