Bulldog Abroad

Bulldog Abroad (Part One)

Fan fiction by Raindog

 
The following casefile is completely ficticious. No agents were harmed in the making of this story.
 
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AMSTERDAM LOCAL TIME 01.21
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Emmanuelle’s room was a vain attempt to return the bordello to a time when places like this deserved the name. There was a four-poster bed in the middle of the room complete with a rayon canopy that looked like it had survived a bear attack. The full-length mirror had joints that were tarnishing right before his very eyes. The heavy perfume desperately tried to cover the scent of cheap leather and overpriced hash.

 
The only thing worth the 500 bucks dropped at the door was Emmanuelle herself. Blonde hair washed down through the valley of her back. Her slender arms arched to the make-up table pushed to one side of the room. Every curve was sculpted and proof that there was a creator. He briefly wondered if the thudding in his ears wasn’t the techno from the bar downstairs but the sound of his heart.
 
“Come in,” she said with just a tease of a French accent. She watched him as she shut the door. He was an older man with a short haircut and goatee. His body was hidden underneath an old wool waistcoat. Grey tried to wrestle its way into his face and hair but seemed to still be losing at this point. His face was seasoned with large wrinkles and small scars.
 
“And what is your desire tonight, monsieur?”
 
She turned slightly and covered herself with her arms. He took in a deep breath.
 
“I want to pretend I’m Ronald Reagan and you’re the Queen Mother.”
 
“Do you have the wig in your pocket?”
 
“That’s no wig. That’s my pet badger.”
 
Emmanuelle let out a hearty laugh.
 
“I can’t believe you were able to keep a straight face through that,” she said with no accent whatsoever.
 
“I can’t believe the things they come up with for code phrases these days,” he replied. She rose and they embraced.
 
“It’s good to see you, Bulldog,” she said.
 
“It’s good to see you too, Em,” he said with a sly smile as they separated.
 
She walked to the closet and put on a lavender robe.
 
“It’s a bit warm for the coat, isn’t it?”
 
“I know how it gets when it rains here.”
 
“You’ve been a point man for too long,” said Em as she returned to the seat by the table. “A beautiful woman and a bed and all you can think about is the weather.”
 
“I want to know about the job,” he said, sitting on the bed.
 
“Even worse,” she sighed as she pushed a lipstick container into the desk. The mirror flickered with static twice.
 
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
 
“On the dresser.”
 
Bulldog stood and retrieved the pack. He started to put one in his mouth but glanced at the pack.
 
“They’re European.”
 
“We’re in Europe.”
 
“Oh yeah, almost forgot.”
 
The mirror flashed once again. This time a familiar face that was not his own greeted him there.
 
“Uncle Reg,” he whispered into Em’s cigarette smoke.
 
“Good morning, Bulldog,” Reg said in his all-too-chipper voice. “I hope you’re enjoying Amsterdam.”
 
“Why can’t he email me these briefings,” he whispered to Em, “so we don’t have to listen to him talk?”
 
“Shhh,” Em replied in between giggles. “It’s a recording.”
 
“---some very expensive cream,” continued Reg. “But enough about my good old days. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
 
Reg blinked out and a thin balding man appeared in his place. His eyes sunk into his face and he looked a size too small for the suit he was wearing.
 
“This is Christian Van Claarksen, one of the best men in Technical Services. He’s been with us for years. For just over a week, he’s been poking around Amsterdam.”
 
“If we know all this about him, why do they need me to track him?”
 
“This isn’t a tracking mission, Bulldog.”
 
Em handed him a clear plastic bag containing Control’s entire file on Van Claarksen. It also contained a small automatic pistol.
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TO BE CONTINUED