by Gavin Reese
chhck
The audible signal announced the end of the test, and Michael read the screen. No known compounds detected. Michael hurried to begin the next test sequence, a Drug-Narcotic Search, waited for the message to change, and repeated his two-minute hold at the open window slit.
chhck
No known compounds detected.
Michael switched to the last detection function. Moment of truth. He pressed the Explosive Ordinance Search icon, saw the message change, and moved the sniffer back to the window. Having been out on Abrini’s balcony for almost ten minutes now, Michael sensed his increasing vulnerability and exposure. I can’t stay here forever, he’ll eventually walk in the front, or out the bedroom door. Nowhere to run but down.
brrtbrrtbrrt
Unlike the last two searches, the device vibrated in his hands and displayed a new message. Caution! Suspicious, Unknown Chemical Agents Detected! Evacuate personnel within 100 yards and submit readings for Reachback analysis!
Michael hadn’t expected the message and struggled with how to proceed. Jacques had left a note on the device that explained Reachback as a process that submits the sensors’ readings to live chemists and physicists at the manufacturer’s corporate labs. The note had very explicitly explained that Michael could not use that feature under any circumstance. Michael suspected the device’s unique identification and ownership data went along with the readings, and he assumed that to be the source of Jacques’ concern. Goddammit.
Michael cycled a deep, calming breath, and peered back inside the apartment for a few moments. With no movement or imminent threats, he acknowledged the ominous message and scrolled through his other options. An icon appeared below the primary three for an All-Hazards Search. Michael pressed that, hoping it would give him something of a second opinion. He again held the sniffer at the window gap for another two minutes and hoped for a definitive outcome.
brrtbrrtbrrt
Michael held his breath and read the screen. Caution! Suspicious, Unknown Chemical Agents Detected! Immediately evacuate personnel within 300 yards and submit readings for Reachback analysis! Michael exhaled, pressed the Submit icon, locked the touchscreen, and replaced the sniffer in his backpack. Sorry, Jacques. He climbed out over the edge of the balcony and began his controlled balcony-to-balcony descent as fast as he dared. Can’t pull the fire alarm and evacuate the building yet, not without knowing what the sensors detected. Could be a false positive, and the alarms might encourage Abrini to run, or blow the place. The neighborhood might be in greater danger from me trying to protect them. No, I have to leave everything as it is for now.
Michael paused on the outside of the third-floor balcony when he saw a child’s stuffed tiger and a small, handmade doll stitched from canvas atop a small bistro table. The sudden, emotional reminders of who shared Abrini’s building muddied Michael’s evacuation decision.
May 9, 7:02am
Vatican Housing Complex. Rome, Italy.
Bishop Harold Hoffaburr, Ph.D., knocked lightly on the door of the luxury apartment assigned to his superior and mentor, Cardinal Paul Dylan. Regardless of what other tasks, appointment, or meetings Harold had scheduled on his boss’ calendar, the two men met every morning between 7 and 8 to keep both their primary concerns on track: directing their covert operatives and managing the cardinal’s political maneuvering inside the modern Holy Roman empire.
Dressed in his usual dark red robe and slippers, Cardinal Dylan opened the door and smiled at his subordinate. “Good morning, Harold, please, come in.”
Despite the daily ritual, Harold still politely awaited the invitation. He entered, strode to the apartment’s opulent rectangular zebrawood dining table, and took his normal seat. Steamy gurgling from the kitchen announced he’d interrupted Dylan’s cappuccino production.
The cardinal strolled through the dining room and disappeared into the kitchen. “Care for a coffee?”
“No, thank you, Your Eminence, I’ve already moved on for the day.”
“How are things in Paris?”
Harold disliked his mentor’s lackadaisical attitude toward aspects of their operational security, such as shouting questions pertaining to a covert kill mission between the rooms of his borrowed residence. The low probability of being overheard doesn’t equate to an impossibility. Unwilling to confront the man and his ego, Harold rose and entered the kitchen to better assure their privacy.
“I’ve not yet heard anything else this morning, but I know the agent received substantial equipment support in the last two days, and John and the DICE analysts have been diligent about fulfilling his intel requests.”
Dylan focused on plunging the cappuccino machine’s steam frother in and out of a metal cup of cream. “So, does that mean he’ll move on this soon, or does he intend only to keep our resources tied up? He’s got more than enough information to move forward, so, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t disagree with the man’s caution, Your Eminence, given the source material and the potential bias from the police--”
“Unless I’m mistaken, the target’s received chemical ingredients known to be used in the manufacture of improvised explosive devices, he’s taken a fake name, and might have attended terror training camps in Syria. I understand the cops might need more information to arrest and prosecute him, Harold, but our men are not the police.” Dylan paused and poured the hot milk and froth over his double-espresso. “They’re Absolvers, and they aren’t bound by the restrictions of mankind’s flawed systems of justice. So, again, Harold, what’s the problem?”
“I believe John has trained them to be appropriately cautious during the investigation phase, which should ensure their safety and longevity--”
Dylan made eye contact with Harold and uttered a dismissive scoff. “Safety and longevity? I don’t recall that we asked them to care about either. Their purpose, their duty, to us and to the Church, to God, in fact, is to remove by force the greatest and most dangerous evils that plague mankind. They can’t do that without risk, sometimes substantial, and they should have well accepted that reality.” He sipped at the hot drink. “In order to carry out their mission and fulfill our needs and purpose for their existence, they must be more aggressive.”
Harold followed the cardinal back to the dining table and sat before offering his perspective. “I believe the concern, for them, anyway, is the risk of an insufficient investigation that leads them to an unjustified final absolution. Essentially, they’re concerned about the possibility of killing an innocent themselves.”
Dylan chuckled, smirked, and sipped his coffee. “Innocent. What a flawed and impossible concept. There’s no such thing. These men of yours and John’s, it’s time they placed greater faith in God. He won’t call them to a target unworthy of a final absolution. How many subjects have our men passed up?”
“Well, really only one subject, but we’ve passed on him several times now, despite the intel analysts’ firm confidence that he requires immediate judgement.”
“I think those results speak for themselves. Talk to John. Convince him, and then have him convince his subordinates. We’re wasting precious time and resources needed elsewhere. And, getting back to it, make sure that Paris is resolved quickly.”
Harold sat in silence for a moment, aware his cardinal hadn’t finished issuing directives.
“Also, while you’re speaking with John, remind him that we need his Absolvers to win this battle at all costs. They’re expendable assets, and God may very well call for their sacrifice or imprisonment, just as he did for most of the apostles. It’s no coincidence most of them are named for men who died in service to God, and they should be proud and honored for the opportunity to martyr themselves for God in the modern era. With the progressive line of thought taking hold over the world, you can’t really trust anyone but communists and Islamic radicals to kill their ideological enemies anymore.”
Dylan gazed over his coffee cup and Harold followed his stare out to the roofline of Va
tican City to their south.
“Reiterate their need to work in isolation from each other, Harold, and their probable need to sacrifice their personal freedoms and lives for God’s causes. I’ll see it as a blessing when they trust us enough to be jailed or killed fulfilling our orders. Who are we, after all, to deny these men the opportunity to enter heaven as modern-day apostles?”
Harold inhaled and shifted the conversation to something more comfortable to him. “What news of the other project, Your Eminence, has there been any movement there?”
Dylan absentmindedly smiled and kept his visual focus on the interior of the famously walled city, the seat of the Roman Catholic empire, the Holy See. “It’s fair to say that great things are just over the horizon for us, Harold. I told you to keep your bags packed when we got here, and I believe we’ll soon be taking up residence inside the Vatican walls. Perhaps of an even greater office than we expected.”
May 9, 07:32am
8 Rue du Corbillon. Saint-Denis, France.
Grateful to be showered and out of the homeless disguise he’d worn since 1am, Michael strode back toward Abrini’s apartment building despite his anxiety. He adjusted the yellow-and-blue reflective vest he wore and confirmed the fake employee ID card remained clipped to the left lapel. To show respect for the local culture, he’d donned khaki pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt that he buttoned to its collar. If Gerard’s right, this is a guaranteed confrontation. Hopefully, the same assholes who chased me off a couple days ago live somewhere else.
He cleared his throat just outside the front door. “I hope you can hear me, Gerard. I’m making entry now, should be on camera for you, too.” Says a lot that it’s too dangerous for me to wear an earpiece or carry a weapon. Michael entered a four-digit code into the keypad that French authorities mandated all such building owners use to grant access to authorities and welfare/aid workers.
Michael stepped back, pulled the door open, and held it for two ten-year-old boys who rushed to leave the building. They both stepped outside and stopped in the door’s path before looking up, and their surprise at seeing Michael was obvious. All three looked at each other for a moment as though everyone wondered what to do next.
“Bonjour, buenos dias, good morning!” Michael smiled and hoped to buy himself time.
The taller of the two leaned into the building and shouted. “Rajul 'abyad yati fi alddakhil!” The boys both waved at Michael, and then ran off the stoop, down the sidewalk, and toward the small bodega he’d first spotted on his nighttime stroll.
Without understanding what the child had just said, Michael could only take solace that the boy’s tone didn’t convey fear or crisis. Still, he probably sounded the alarm. He walked into the dim hallway and hurried to the stairs. The building smelled of mildew, onions, body odor, and curry. Based on Gerard’s earlier intrusion efforts, Michael hustled up to five as naturally as possible.
As he passed the third-floor landing, doors opened on the lower floors and several males engaged each other in conversation. They don’t sound agitated yet, so I might have an outside chance of success here. Michael opened the messenger bag and retrieved a small stack of tri-folded glossy, full-color pamphlets. I want to avoid opening the bag in front of them if I can, it’s just an invitation to ransack it.
By the time he reached the fifth floor, Michael heard heavy steps ascending the stairs behind him. The target was last seen going into the north apartment, #415, and the camera hadn’t shown him leaving. Unless he went out the window, he’s gonna be in there now. Michael paused near that doorway and stayed there while the footsteps closed in. I wish I either had blissful ignorance or the Reachback results to tell me what Abrini’s hiding on the other side of this door.
Just before the ascending footfalls reached the landing below him, Michael stepped across the short hallway, stopped in front of the opposing door, and lightly knocked. This is probably where I get my pockets turned out.
The door opened and a slight, elderly Middle Eastern man with a trimmed gray and white beard, green gown, and blue skullcap stood before him. A quizzical expression spread over his face.
Two young, angry Middle Eastern men reached the landing and stood behind him, glaring.
Michael turned and stepped to his left to place his back against the wall outside the open doorway. He naively nodded to the two men and turned back to the resident inside the apartment.
The older man’s expression had changed to one of concern and fear. “Bonjour, comment puis-je vous aider?”
“Bonjour, parlez-vous espagnol ou anglais?”
“Oh, yes,” the man quickly admitted and nodded to the two interlopers, “but they do not, and they--”
The smaller of the two MAMs spoke harshly to the elderly man in Arabic, and Michael expected the probable outcome of the debate. He smiled and waited for the decision about what form of violence the younger men wished to attempt. With luck, the triggerfish will have time to work before they toss me out the front door on my ear.
The elder raised a finger to draw Michael’s attention. “Although I am merely curious, these men are desperate to know why you’re here and who you are.”
Michael smiled, pointed to the displayed ID card with his left thumb, and tried to show his good humor. “I’m Gabriel Desantos, and I’m a volunteer for an aid organization called Humanitarian Crisis in Motion. We’re in France to assist the U-N Center for Refugees.” He handed each of the men a pamphlet that displayed general information about the fictional organization in Arabic, Farsi, Afrikaans, French, and English. The older gentleman accepted and reviewed it. Both of the younger men skimmed it so quickly Michael didn’t believe either of them could read any of the languages presented there.
“How can I help you, sir?”
Michael spread his arms out toward the trio. “Actually, that’s what I want to ask all of you. We want to know how we can assist anyone new to France with their transition. If anyone needs help to access government serv--”
The shorter MAM spoke over him again, but this time in a much louder, irritate tone. The elder replied in Arabic and referred to portions of the pamphlet as he did so.
Michael kept smiling and tried to stay calm. Come on triggerfish, don’t let this be for nothing.
“I’m sorry, sir, please forgive my paranoid neighbors,” the elder offered. “They proclaim a grave and immediate distrust of you. They have agreed not to resort to violence if you’ll permit them to examine the contents of your pack.”
Michael let his smile evaporate and slowly raised his hands up in front of his shoulders, in what most people intrinsically recognized as a “surrender position.” Those skilled in shooting and combat sports knew it was anything but.
“I don’t want trouble,” Michael offered while slowly shaking his head, “I just want to help.” He stepped toward the aggressors with his left shoulder, leaving his stronger right hand better protected near the wall, and awkwardly pulled the bag’s strap off his left shoulder with that same hand.
The bigger man grabbed at the strap and ripped the bag away while his loud-mouthed cohort stepped closer to Michael but didn’t yet touch him.
“It’s okay,” Michael offered, “you can look, it’s okay. We’re all, okay.”
The older man stepped closer to see inside the bag for himself. “They don't speak anything that you do, and we probably can’t convince them you’re not a threat, Mister Desantos.” He looked up at Michael with sincere concern in his eyes. “If there is something in there that will upset them or get you hurt, you should tell me now while I can still intervene on your behalf.”
“No, there’s nothing dangerous, it’s only pamphlets, a computer, and a hard drive.”
“I hope you’re right. These two have likely only ever attended madrasas, so you and I can only guess at how they will interpret your possessions.”
Escalating conversation between the younger two drew their attention. The smaller man overturned the bag in frustration and dumped its
contents onto the floor. A small laptop fell hard onto the dirty, tiled floor, followed by an apparent hard drive and a hundred more copies of the same pamphlet Michael had handed over.
Michael didn’t care about the laptop, but he tried not to react when the triggerfish, disguised as a large external hard drive, struck the computer and the floor. He kept his hands up and stepped back until he contacted the wall.
The smaller man inspected the items on the floor while his muscle stood up and rifled through the bag. Soon bored with that, they looked back to Michael. A quick conversation and pointed fingers made their intent plain before Michael’s advocate addressed him.
“They want to search you now. I suggest you do not say ‘no,’ regardless of how their behavior saddens and offends me.”
Michael nodded and raised his hands a little higher but kept them just above his shoulders for power and maneuverability. “I understand.”
The muscle ran his hands over Michael and his clothing in a rough, ineffective search. I’m glad I have nothing to hide, but it’d be damned easy to conceal any of my pistols from him. This guy didn’t go anywhere near my crotch.
Additional footfalls ascended the stairs, and another MAM walked up behind the smaller one. The large mole on the man’s left cheek confirmed his identity. Oh, shit. Unibrow. Hope you can see this, Gerard, because things just went to shit up here.
All three MAMs engaged in a brief but heated conversation that seemed to involve Michael’s groin and some objection from their outnumbered elder. Unibrow didn’t seem to recognize him.
