by G M Eppers
I shivered at the thought. “Miss Chiff would never have fallen for it. She’d see right through you like an open window, even if you acted rings around The Duke himself.”
“John Wayne didn’t act,” Butte responded. “John Wayne movies were the first reality TV, without the TV.” He was trying to lighten the mood, to make the interminable wait to get to ground a bit easier. And it did help. A little. But even he couldn’t sustain it. “But if Billings was taken because your team was getting too close . . . No. Something else is going on here.” He took my hand instinctively. “Helena.”
I took a deep breath. It quivered and caught in my chest. “Someone wanted us out of the way. Or me, anyway. Someone thought the investigation would fail without me.” I felt like I was back on the spinning bed. “And then when it didn’t, they took him. Because he was in charge. Oh, damn.” It was Miss Chiff who had sent me on this mission. “Not Miss Chiff. She wouldn’t.” I looked at Butte in desperation. I didn’t want to believe that Miss Chiff would put me in danger, put Billings in danger, and thwart an investigation that she initiated.
“Someone above Miss Chiff, then. Maybe someone above my bosses. And we don’t know how far above. We need to be careful.” Above Miss Chiff? I’d never considered it before. She must report to someone, but I’d be damned if I knew who it was. All these years it has just seemed like she and our team were a closed unit, not an appendage. Trying to get my head around our command structure was going to give me a migraine. The very idea was competing with the driving need to find my son and bring him home safe and sound. The latter took precedence, but the former didn’t actually leave my thoughts.
The door cycled open and we ran out. I took the platform steps two at a time. Butte bypassed the steps all together and jumped to the ground in a flying leap. As promised, his limo was right there with the door open. We climbed in and it began to move before we’d even closed the door. It swung shut on its own as we sped away. All we had to do was figure out who “they” were. Any of the many “theys.” Who was the Meatball Bomber? Who engineered our little tryst of Spy vs. Spy? And who had taken Billings? It wasn’t necessarily all the same person. But it was only the last question that concerned me right now. The rest of it could wait. Right now I didn’t give a damn who had killed Chembassador Philips and those other Chembassy employees, and I didn’t even give a damn who had set up the mutual wild goose chase. I just wanted my son back.
A very long 90 minutes later, Butte and I arrived at the hotel in Kutna Hora. It seemed like years since I’d left it, since I’d run out of the hotel with nothing but a go bag and a cell phone. The bag was slung over my shoulder, but I had no idea how long it had been there. I didn’t remember picking it up. The cell phone was in my pants pocket. And the oversized WHEY windbreaker flapped as I ran into the lobby. I went to the front desk, glad to see Zuzka’s friendly face. She remembered me and let me check back in to the same room. “Is late. Guests sleeping. Please be quiet.” We hurried to the elevator, which seemed to move very slowly and the calming music was maddening. I paced in the tiny room as we ascended. Butte followed me down the hallway and made a ‘harumph’ sound. Guests sleeping? There was a rhythmic thumping coming from one room, and the sounds of a serious poker game coming from another.
I also heard fighting as we approached the CURDS suites, rooms 627, 629 and 631. I used my key to open the door to the center room, and was gratified to see the rest of the team all there, some hovering around Badger and some fiddling with their own cell phones. “You couldn’t find an elephant if it sat on your head!” yelled Sir Haughty. “Give me that!” And he tried to acquire Badger’s phone without permission.
“I told you. It’s triangulating. Give it time,” said Badger, turning to keep the phone away from Sir Haughty. That’s when he saw me. “Helena!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Everyone stopped and there was utter silence as they turned toward me. Then I was rushed and smothered by 14 arms which pulled me into the room like a victim in a zombie movie. Everyone was talking at once and I couldn’t understand any of it. Butte stood in the doorway looking like he felt like chopped liver. Finally, someone noticed the oversized jacket I was wearing and spun me around. “Oh my God,” said Roxy. “She’s turned. She’s gone WHEY.” Roxy had traded in her sky blue lace for sky blue satin, still wearing the Louboutins. That’s devotion, and planning. She probably had no intention of wearing any other shoes for the duration.
I’d forgotten I had the jacket on. Quickly, I slipped out of it, letting it fall to the floor. Even though it had been ridiculously loose, removing it felt freeing, as if it had been a straightjacket. “No, I didn’t. Guys, listen –“ Without being told, Sylvia hunted up my HEP belt and badge, and I rejoined CURDS with the click of a buckle. No one had heard my explanation for leaving yet, but it didn’t matter. I was back, and that was all they needed. No doubts at all about my right to carry the badge.
“What’s he doing here?” asked the twins in unison, noticing Butte behind me. It was evident that Billings’ resentment of him had been passed on to them.
I’d been back and forth with it myself for the past two days, picking the petals off my internal flower one by one. He’s decent. He’s evil. He’s decent. He’s evil. He’s decent. “He’s here to help. Please, guys, we don’t have time for petty squabbling. Billings is his son, too.” That was the last I heard of anything resembling such resentment. All they needed was the reminder of Billings’ full parentage to understand what was important here. “I have a lot of things to explain. Badger, whatever you’re triangulating, keep it up.” Triangulating meant locating, and locating was exactly what I wanted him to be doing. I didn’t know what was triangulating and I didn’t care. Butte closed the door and everyone improvised seats out of whatever they could. I was too full of nervous energy to sit down. And I told them everything. Everything except the night in Prague and the spinning bed, of course. From Miss Chiff’s phone call in the warehouse to the ride on the London Eye. “I’m sorry I lied to you. You have no idea how much it hurt me to leave.”
“Are you going to be in trouble with Miss Chiff?” asked Roxy, adjusting the back strap on her Louboutins.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “And I don’t much care. She can throw the book at me later. Right now, we need to find Billings.”
Badger raised his phone. “I’m triangulating on his STD, but he must be on the move.”
“His what?” I asked. Badger tilted his head to his left, toward Nitro, and jerked twice.
Nitro gave me a guilty smile. “Subcutaneous Tracking Device. We all have one.”
“Since when?”
He winced, even guiltier. “Since the physicals. It was that last inoculation.”
“At the physicals, you gave each of us an STD?” I reiterated, rolling my eyes.
Nitro, at least, showed a little shame. “Yes, I did. By order of Curds Medical Division – Confidential Communications.”
“You mean the CMDCC?”
“They tried to come up with an acronym at the last medical committee meeting, but failed. The closest they got was CoMDiCC, but that was unanimously voted down. It was decided to just go with the abbreviation.”
“A wise choice,” I said. “Is this the same committee that came up with STD?” He simply nodded. “So they’re one for two, in my opinion. Who is in charge of naming our tech, a twelve-year-old?” Somewhere, Captain Emotionally Stunted was having a nice laugh, I supposed. I shouldered my way over to Badger to get a look at his phone. It seemed to be tied in to his usual GPS, but the cursor was a circle with the initials BM in it. It was flashing. Next to it was a series of tiny fluctuating numbers that couldn’t seem to decide on where to stop. I had a horrible thought and heard myself ask, “Nitro, is this STD one of those things that stops when a person is –“ I couldn’t say it.
Fortunately, Nitro understood where I was going. “No. The signal keeps going unless it’s destroyed. It doesn’t tell us anythi
ng about his—“ he couldn’t say it either. “I know they’ve shown it that way in movies for years, but the truth is it’s nothing more than a visual effect. We haven’t been able to tie into real time vital signs yet. Plus, the device could have been removed, but then I think it would be easy for the program to get a lock on it. So I think we can surmise that it’s still in his arm. And they wouldn’t be moving him if he was—so he’s not—.”
I decided to put Nitro out of his misery. “Got it. Okay, so what do we know so far? I’ve filled you guys in. What did I miss while I was gone?” I knew I could count on Badger to butt in if his GPS settled on a reading.
“We analyzed the meatballs, just like you said,” offered Sir Haughty. “I knew something was fishy about those things. I mean, not fishy, they were pork and beef, but, you know, fishy. The instructions said to cook them at 260 degrees. In American Fahrenheit, that would produce a nice, moist meatball. But this is Europe and the scale would be Celsius, equivalent to 500 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Oh my God,” I said reflexively. “Why wouldn’t the Chembassy chef have noticed this?” And before I could get an answer, because the other conversation hadn’t been forgotten and I was terribly impatient, “Badger, anything on the GPS?”
“Not yet,” reported Badger. “Still fluctuating like crazy.” On the bed, Avis was hugging her knees, hiding her face in them. Agnes stroked her sister’s hair and whispered to her. The rest were as attentive as a troop of Marines in front of their drill sergeant, waiting for instructions before battle.
Sir Haughty continued his analysis as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There was an insert in the box, with several translations, that described the meatballs as a special recipe. It admitted that the temperature was high, but strongly advised that the instructions be followed to the letter to ensure the highest quality. It was very convincing, explaining the make-up of the meat mixture in terms that actually amounted to gibberish, with invented words such as ‘carnascious cohesion’ and ‘thermonic conduction patterns.’”
“How is it you didn’t blow yourselves up? I saw the analysis on the news. That stuff is volatile.”
“I did it underwater, of course,” said Nitro. “Under cold water. Really cold water. My hands are just now thawing out,” he said, waving both hands as if they were numb. “There was still a risk. Some explosives work when they’re wet. But the odds were pretty good. I wore a mattress—don’t go into room 627—and sent everyone else to 631.”
“My God, Nitro, what about the rest of the hotel? Those things flattened the Chembassy!”
Nitro put a hand palm down and lowered it. “Chill. The Chembassy cooked dozens of meatballs at a time. This was just one small meatball. Even if it had gone off, it would have just left some scorch marks on the walls. I was willing to take the heat, if you’ll pardon the pun –“
“I don’t,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t know how I would have proceeded, but I would never have authorized such an experiment had I been there. The results could have been much worse. On the upside, after Miss Chiff read my report she could vouch for my value as team leader. If she wasn’t involved in the conspiracy, that is. “Do you think Billings was taken because the analysis was released to the public?”
Badger, still watching the tracing app on his cell phone, said, “That wasn’t it. It’s what came after.”
“Okay, what came after?”
“You didn’t see the later news?” asked Agnes. Her sister Avis appeared to be in a fugue state, and Agnes was doing what she could to comfort her. It takes a lot of skill to pat someone on the back when you are physically attached to them. I shook my head. “After the analysis came tracing the source. We discovered the meatballs had come from a mail order place called Carne Posta. There are invoices in the data we collected at the warehouse. We weren’t going to release that, but the local investigators came to the same conclusion and put out a press release before we could stop them. Then they gave us credit for the intel as an apology, I guess. Billings was furious with them when we saw the news story on TV here. He was complaining to them on his phone, but was going to go read them the riot act in person when he was taken.” And I would read him the riot act when—and in my head I stressed that word—we found him. He should have known better than to go alone.
“Carne Posta. Sounds Italian,” said Butte, who stood protectively right behind me.
I suggested, “Or Spanish,” knowing how much I didn’t know about languages.
Without even looking up, Badger corrected me. “Spanish for mail is ‘correo.’ I agree with Butte. The source is most likely Italy. But it could also be a company founded in Italy and located elsewhere.”
“We need to go!” shouted Avis suddenly, her head rolling up and back in despair. “We have to go save Billings!”
I moved to the bed, edging past Nitro and Roxy to reach her, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find him, Avis. As soon as we know where he is, we’re going.” I crouched down and looked her in the eyes—very moist brown eyes, brimming with tears. “It doesn’t make any sense to leave without knowing where we’re going, does it? And in the meantime, getting everyone on the same page is going to be very useful. You need to pull yourself together. We’re all worried. He’s my son. I’m as worried as you are, but remember that he’s highly trained. I’m sure he’s okay, and he’s just biding his time looking for the right opportunity to escape. When that time comes, I intend to be there to help. Are you with me?”
Avis wiped her eyes, and nodded. I gave her a pat and rose, moving my attention back to Badger as Agnes handed her sister a tissue from the box on the nightstand.
Badger tapped his screen and shook his head. “I think he’s on a plane. The app is having trouble figuring out the altitude. It’s not used to looking 35,000 feet up. It’s just a guess, but it would explain what I’m seeing.”
“Heading to Italy?” Butte asked before I could.
Badger studied the screen again, fingering it to zoom out. “It’s going south, so it’s at least a possibility.”
“Everybody packed?” There were nods all around, even a stunned, weak nod from Avis. “Let’s get the hell out of here, then. By the time we get to the airport, his location might be confirmed.”
The team mobilized. We checked out with a generous housekeeping tip and I told Zuzka to charge my card for a new mattress. I wasn’t sure if there was any other damage, since I had followed Nitro’s suggestion and avoided going into room 627, but it was safe to assume that full damages would be passed on to our accountants. At this point, I was prepared to put it all on my own personal card, but the room was already registered with the CURDS card. It was only money. It didn’t matter.
It took three cabs to get us all to the airport and Butte let WHEY pay for that. If they had any arguments about it, I was sure he’d be able to argue right back at them. I let the rest of the team board the CURDS1 ahead of me, and I led Butte onto the plane personally. It was a pleasure to show off our plane, although at first Butte was unimpressed. “It’s much smaller than AirWHEY,” he commented as he climbed the staircase. But when he saw what we’d done with the inside, he changed his tune. I gave him the five cent tour, starting with tossing my go bag and HEP belt into my locker just as the others finished stowing their gear. Billings’ locker sat undisturbed and I walked past it quickly.
“This is Dinny,” I said as we entered the cabin proper. “Our steward and co-pilot.”
“I’m co-pilot today. You won’t see me much. I understand we’re going to Italy?”
“Unless our information changes, yes.”
“Oooo. Fun pasta!” She disappeared into the cockpit. As we were rescuing Billings, she would be hitting nearby farmers’ markets and stocking the plane with all sorts of Italian delicacies. Italy, being one of the big cheese countries, was hit hard by the OOPS. Its economy was still rocky, even a decade later. It was still known for spaghetti and several pasta dishes with meat sauce, but addi
tions like parmesan and ricotta were all but gone. Only the most expensive 5-star restaurants could afford the tariffs and fees to acquire certified Uber-free cheeses for lasagna or pizza, even though most of them were still produced there. Some companies were getting seriously rich exporting certified cheeses rather than selling them locally; that is why smaller companies had expanded into meat products to recoup some of the losses that resulted from the downswing.
As Butte and I entered the body of the plane, I saw Badger knocking on the door to the cockpit. He saw us, and pointed to the phone he still held in his hand. “They landed.”
Dinny opened the door, but didn’t let Badger enter. It was against regulations. “Hey, Badger,” she said. “You got a better location for us than a country 300,000 square kilometers?”
“Head for Reggio Calabria airport,” he said.
As the door closed, I heard Dinny pass on the information. “Kev, Reg Cala. You still got the tower on the line?” Badger went to take a seat, his phone still in hand.
I indulged in feeling a little smug as we took our seats. After the 100 plus seats on the AirWHEY, it was like the entire plane was his private cabin, even though the plane itself was smaller. The twins had strapped into their special double seat toward the interior of the plane, so I motioned to Butte to take the one by the window so I could sit next to him. He waved me in first. “I remember. You like to look out the window.”
“I do,” I said. The last time I said that to Butte, we got, um, “marred.” “But I think I’d prefer the aisle this time.” I lowered my voice. “I feel like my nerves might make me sick. I’m so tense I could bite through a pencil.”
“Me, too,” he said, sliding into the window seat. He pulled down the shade. I didn’t even know we had those. “We’ll find him. Just like you told Avis. By the way, is there something going on there or is it my imagination? She seemed way more upset than anyone else, even you.” He buckled in and pulled the seatbelt taut.
