by G M Eppers
I swallowed the lumber in my throat. “Okay, final orders then. You are all staying here and carrying out this investigation as planned,” I stared Billings in the eye using the same angle I use to look at clouds. “Got it?” His expression told me nothing. “You follow the leads you have, and that includes checking out those meatballs.”
“The meatballs?” Roxy asked. She leaned her head to the left. “Do you know something that we don’t?”
“Of course not,” I said a little too quickly. “Don’t tell me you don’t see a possibility there,” I went on, seeing a way to play it. “You guys are too smart for that. Get your hands on those meatballs before someone else does. If CURDS can crack this case it will go a long way toward justifying our expenses and maybe help get my position reinstated.”
“Where will you go?” Billings asked.
“Home,” I replied simply. “Miss Chiff said I can stay at the house until I find other work and get on my feet. I’ll help Knobby with the upkeep to pay my way until then. I can’t fly back on CURDS1, though. There’s a 1st class commercial ticket waiting for me at the airport. She’ll be waiting for me to land,” I said, and paused for effect, “to escort me to HQ.” I set the go bag on the bed for a moment, then solemnly reached behind my back to unhook the HEP belt. I pocketed my cell phone, but tossed the belt and its contents, which included my gun and badge, onto the bed. Everyone stared at it like it had suddenly grown donkey ears.
I picked up the go bag and reached up to give Billings a hug, the bag whacking him in the back. He leaned down to make it easier, and I kissed him. There followed a string of hugs and encouragement from everyone. It was very heartwarming and at the same time pure torture. Finally, I slipped out the door and hurried to the elevator. A brief stop at the desk to check out and I was out of the building, down the block and around the corner. And that’s where I lost it completely. I leaned weakly against the corner of whatever building this was and sobbed until nausea set in. People walked around me. I knew they were looking at me with concern, but no one stopped to ask.
Turning toward the building, I spit out a few gobs of mucus onto the sidewalk. I fished out a tissue and blew my nose, stuffing the disgusting thing in my pocket when I was finished. When I had finally pulled myself together, I extracted my cell phone and carefully deleted the 28 missed calls, then selected a number from the menu and pushed OK. I listened to it ring a few times, and then it went to voice mail. After the beep, I said, “Hi, Butte. I need to talk to you. Something’s happened, and I need to talk. Call me as soon as you get this.” I put the phone back in my pocket and slowly walked away as if I were a lone tourist out exploring the neighborhood. He might not have called back if I just told him my cover story. I wasn’t sure if he cared that much. But he cared deeply about Billings. My message was deliberately designed to make him think something had happened to Billings. Billings was his weak spot. Billings was how I would get what I wanted. Come to think of it, it was always how I got what I wanted from Butte.
I walked for several blocks, just thinking about what I had done, and what I yet still had to do, and waited for Butte to call back. Life in the Czech Republic went on. People were going on with their lives, none of them knowing that somewhere out there a monster lay, about to unleash a chemical weapon that had the potential to outperform the Bubonic Plague. Many of them were even now listening and absorbing misinformation designed to make them believe that Uber cheese was the next big taste sensation, about to be rescued from an undeserved underground existence by the good will of the WHEY Foundation.
What if Butte didn’t know anything about it? What if he was as surprised as I was by all this? Would he turn against WHEY? Would he realize that the new funding he was so proud to take advantage of was nothing more than bribery on a grand scale? Part of me wanted that outcome. Part of me desperately wanted Butte to be ignorant of this. But if he was, how was I supposed to stop it from happening? How was I supposed to bring down an international, technically legal, corrupt and dangerous industry without an inside track to management? WHEY was not the same as Uber, you see. Uber was the market itself, wheeling and dealing in a completely illegal substance. WHEY was just its PR machine. Technically, WHEY wasn’t breaking a single law, which is what made it so hard to fight against them. At least, that’s the image I always had of them. That’s why I always supported Butte’s freedom to protest and endorse the industry. But if Krochedy Brothers funding had sewn the two layers together like the inseam of a pair of jeans, it changed the whole story. It made them accomplices. I didn’t want my ex-husband to be involved like that. But if he wasn’t, my mission would probably fail.
I waited nervously for his call, getting twitchier with every passing minute.
Then there was the problem of how to go about it. Miss Chiff and I had jointly worked out a cover story, this fiction of my having been fired. But would it be easier to just come out with it and ask him without any trickery? If my original naïve interpretation of the situation were true, that would be all that I needed to do. Ask, get it answered, and be done with it. But the danger lay in the strong possibility that the situation wasn’t that simple. No organization got that kind of funding without major changes in the command structure. All it did was give the people at the top more to protect, make them more willing to take extreme measures to do so, and narrow the scope of influence of any particular employee in the organization. I couldn’t be open and up front when I talked to Butte without risking my own safety and the success of my mission to discredit them, no matter how much Butte wanted to protect me. It felt dirty. I felt dirty.
In my walk, I discovered a children’s playground. It was midafternoon, but it was mostly deserted. A few small children puttered in the sandbox, and one was obsessed with the tiny plastic slide, climbing up and sliding down repeatedly while her mother watched. I wondered if any of them ate cheese. I wondered if their mothers read the labels or checked the stamps on the wax coverings. I wondered how many of them would still be alive in six months, while I sat on a swing, idly rocking back and forth with one foot on the ground and feeling more morose all the time.
About an hour after I left the message, my phone finally rang. Butte’s name showed on the display and I answered on the first ring. “Hi, Butte,” I said.
“Helena, I got your message. What happened?”
I let go another quivering breath, just as Miss Chiff and I had planned. “There were budget cuts. I’ve been cut from the team.”
“Oh My God! Oh God, I’m so sorry. Where are you?”
“I’m still in Kutna Hora. The Czech Republic. I’m sure you know about the Chembassy attack. We were here investigating it.”
“Yes, I heard. We’re here in Prague doing a demonstration outside Prague Castle, near the Charles Bridge.” I could hear some chanting in the background in a jumble of Czech, English, and Russian. I would have thought they would be better organized and at least chant in one language so they could be heard. It sounded more like a mob scene than a demonstration.
“Celebrating?” My sarcasm wasn’t entirely forced.
“No!” He said angrily. “This was scheduled before the attack. It has nothing to do with it. There is one faction I heard arranging a candlelight vigil for later tonight, but other than that it’s all about encouraging cheese freedom. Do you think the word Cheedom would ever catch on?”
I bit my tongue. “I hope not. Listen, I want to see you.”
“Can you come to Prague?”
“I don’t have access to CURDS funding anymore. It’ll take about an hour to get there by train,” I told him.
“Okay. In 90 minutes I’ll be at the Hlubák Club. It’ll be dinnertime. My treat.” He gave the address and brief directions. “I’m sorry you got fired.”
“Thank you. I just need a familiar face right now. Even if it isn’t entirely friendly.”
“Who says I’m not friendly?” He broke the connection and I stared at my phone for a minute, wanting to call him back
and confess. The little girl obsessed with the slide forgot to put her feet down and landed with a thump on her bottom. She started to cry and her mother rushed forward to comfort her. The woman pulled something out of her purse, unwrapped it, and handed it to the girl, who stuffed one end in her mouth and left it there, holding onto the other end while her mother lifted her and carried her away. I’m pretty sure it was string cheese.
While I sat there watching that little personal drama tinged with an underlayment of impending doom, a text came in from Billings. He wanted me to call him when I got home. No matter what time it was. Please. Sure, I thought. I could always tell him Miss Chiff took my phone, too. After all, it was also CURDS issue. And maybe the house phone was still out of commission because of the upgrade. There were compatibility issues. And I didn’t have any loose change for a public phone. And. And. And. And coming up with fictions was getting too easy. And I began to loathe Miss Chiff and CURDS and having ever enlisted. As I pushed off the swing and headed for the nearest train station, I looked at the people around me with a certain amount of jealousy. Ignorance truly was bliss. It was also a lot like virginity. Once you lost it, you weren’t going to get it back. Ever.
Chapter Two
In short order, I was on the train to Prague. I sat in my window seat, watching the Czech landscape speed by, lulled by the rhythmic clackety clack of the train wheels and the gentle swaying of the car, thinking how spoiled I was by the flying hotel we called CURDS1. An hour can be a very long time with no one to talk to. I was already wondering what the team was doing, and if the cats were getting along on the plane. I knew I’d see them again, but I didn’t know how long it would be. And I missed my son, full regret setting in for how I’d had to treat him when I left. I felt I’d been too rough on him, too demanding, but I simply couldn’t allow them to be distracted from the investigation. I only hoped that Billings was ready for the responsibility. I’d been riding about twenty minutes, which seemed like years, when my phone rang. I knew it would be Billings, and I knew what I would have to say. “Hello.”
“Mom! Are you okay? I have to tell you what we found out.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You don’t. In fact, you can’t. It’s classified.”
“But –“
“Don’t, Billings. Just don’t. You know the protocols. You’ve already broken it by calling this number. Don’t push your luck.”
“Mom!”
Of course he wanted to say more. He was obviously very excited about something. And I wanted to talk to him more than anything. I was curious, but I couldn’t let this go on. “I’m sorry, Billings. But we can’t discuss the investigation. We can’t even discuss the weather on this line. I’ll let you know when I’ve got my own phone. Do your job, Billings. Make me proud, just like always. I’ll be there when you get home. Bye.”
I broke the connection. If I had had any tears left, I would have cried some more. But my eyes, my heart, and my mind had all gone dry. I stared out the window for the rest of the ride to Prague.
The restaurant Butte had suggested, the Hlubák Club, was just a short walk from the Charles Bridge train station. There was a large muscular man standing outside the door. His job appeared to be pointing to a sign that was posted in three languages. The sign identified it as Karaoke night and offered to waive the cover charge and two drink minimum if you agreed to sing. I paid the charge and went in. Another sign right inside the door warned patrons that smoking was permitted on the premises. I didn’t like it, but it was hard to avoid in Europe.
Like most nightclubs, it was dimly lit, but after my eyes adjusted it wasn’t too difficult. It was a bit smoky, but I’ve been in worse. I chased an Uber dealer through a bar in Serbia once and had to fight the urge to pull the fire alarm. My eyes burned for two days and my chest muscles ached from holding my breath. Prague appeared to be a bit more enlightened, or maybe it was just a slow night for tobacco users. Dozens of tables were scattered across the room, some of them tall with higher stools, some standard with chairs, even a few booths along the walls, and a balcony level with even more tables. From what I could tell, every seat was filled. Karaoke night must be very popular. The stage was already taken by a nervous but determined young lady who was trying to sing something in Czech. Aside from the singer, there was the ambient noise of a hundred different conversations. I took a seat at the bar and ordered my first required drink, a Rum and Coke. I sipped it, waiting for Butte to find me. Glancing up, I saw a TV mounted above the bar. The sound was down, but the closed captioning was on in English. A glance around the room showed other TVs, with captioning in the other popular languages. I stuck to English. Suddenly I was riveted to the screen, forgetting about the drink, the out of tune singer, and everything else
The screen was showing an artist’s drawing of a dissected meatball, although the inside of the meatball was not actually meat. The captioning was explaining that contrary to the fire department’s findings of a gas leak, a CURDS investigative team, under the leadership of Billings Montana (!) had discovered the destruction of the Chembassy in Kutna Hora had been caused by bombs disguised as meatballs. The core of the meatball was ammonium chlorate, an explosive that reacts to extreme heat. I’d never heard of it before, but then we didn’t deal with a lot of bombings, generally speaking. And all the chemistry I knew I’d learned from watching Breaking Bad, in which you didn’t even learn how to make meth, but you did learn that hydrofluoric acid will dissolve a body and almost everything else. In retrospect, it might have been safer the other way around. Give people the recipe for meth, but don’t tell them how to dissolve a body. Surrounding the ammonium chlorate was a wrapping of nitrocellulose, also known as guncotton, which ignites in spectacular fashion from the slightest spark, which would be provided by the explosion of the Ammonium Chlorate when the meatball was cooked. And packed around these was a mixture of pork and beef. The captioning explained how the untouched box of meatballs was found in the freezer. The box had had no markings on it other than identifying it as meatballs and cooking instructions which advised a preheated temperature of 260 degrees. The report repeated thanks to the CURDS team for their ingenuity in analyzing the meatballs, but didn’t specify the methodology. I was curious how it was done without causing another explosion. Those materials are extremely dangerous.
The meatball diagram disappeared and the reporter came on. He added that the source of the meatballs was still being investigated and that the search for the Meatball Bomber had begun in earnest. I expelled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. This had to be why Billings had called me, what he’d been so excited about. I couldn’t say I blamed him for feeling that way. My team! My team had done that all by themselves! I was filled with pride, and then with longing and regret and oh to Hell with it. I downed my first drink and ordered another. The story finished by reminding the audience that the fire investigators were certain it was simply an accidental gas leak, that the meatball explosive didn’t exist, and that CURDS was not qualified to determine such a chemically complicated issue. Ha, I thought. Says you.
The nervous woman finished her tune to lackluster applause and left the stage. A glance at the stage showed a man in a suit coming out and taking the mic. He had a dark beard that looked like he had glued coffee grounds to his face. Uninterested, I turned around again, hoping they would replay the news story. “I’ve been told to introduce our next singer in English. He’s going to sing a very special song dedicated to a special woman. Please welcome Mr. Butte Montana!”
I nearly did a spit take and almost wasted a mouthful of rum and Coke all over the bartender. I turned from the TV to the stage in time to see the suit trade off the mic like it was an Olympic baton, and there he was. My ex-husband, up on the stage, quietly accepting his own lackluster applause. He saw me at the bar and waited while the first few notes of his selection came up. I recognized the song and my jaw dropped open. Now, the thing is, Butte can really sing. He could have gone professional anytime he wanted. He’s go
t one of those crystal clear tenor voices and can hold a note like it’s cemented to his throat. The song he picked was very dramatic, with a lot of double and triple whole notes. It’s known as The Proposed Global Anthem and was written a few years earlier as a response to worldwide changes caused by the OOPS. It’s scheduled to be voted on as a Global Anthem sometime this decade at the United Nations.
The words are simple:
One people, one human race
Eyes, nose, ears and mouth
One human face
We share the Earth
Water, land and air
Caretakers together, it’s only fair
Boundaries fall, we learn, we grow
Fighting is futile
More friend, less foe
Regardless of our shade of skin
We laugh, we cry,
Have kith and kin
No matter the language we speak
It’s hate and fear
That makes us weak
It matters not what we believe
Intolerance
Is just naïve
If he loves him and she loves her
At least it’s love
And not more war
One people, one Earth
One globe, one world
