by A C Praat
What time would Charlie be up? She’d planned to walk to the apartment and arrive at a decent hour, but the commute had left her flustered, and the wheelie bag was a hindrance in the morning foot traffic. At least now she knew she’d find Charlie’s place. And she could have a decent coffee before going in.
Mishra sipped her coffee on a bench outside Charlie’s apartment building while she waited for nine o’clock – the earliest she felt that she could turn up unannounced – and watched people hurrying up and down the cobbled lane. Banks of shops and apartments towered over her, blocking the sun and funneling the coffee and sushi scented breeze. She wouldn’t be able to sit here for long without freezing.
There – a slight woman with wavy brown hair, carrying a carton of milk. ‘Charlie!’
‘Mishra?’
Mishra stood and smiled as Charlie hugged her.
‘You’re the last person I expected to see in Wellington. What brings you?’
‘I’m here on sabbatical. And Sol gave me your address – told me to check in on his girl.’ Mishra dropped her smile and looked over her shoulder to check they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Philip’s missing.’
‘What? Philip Templeton – your Philip?’ Charlie looked astonished.
Mishra nodded. ‘Have you heard from him?’
‘No, not since that night in Adelaide at your place.’
Mishra’s hope died. That was way before the exposé – before Philip had disappeared from Adelaide.
‘Let’s go inside. You look upset. I’ll make us a coffee.’
Mishra picked up the handle of her wheelie bag and followed Charlie into her apartment building. Once inside, Charlie busied herself in the kitchen while Mishra wandered to the picture window at the end of the narrow living room. It was a cheerful apartment, a complete contrast to her own feelings. Bright rugs and a green leather lounge suite were arranged around the view out to the harbor, and paintings and photos lined the walls. Mishra turned her back to the sun as Charlie placed two steaming mugs on her dining table. Charlie pulled out a chair for her and claimed the seat opposite.
‘What’s been happening since I left?’ Charlie asked.
Where should she start? ‘The authorities have been investigating the leaked code and Philip’s disappearance. I thought he might have been in touch.’
‘I haven’t heard from him. All my information came through Sol.’
A door clicked, and Mishra jumped. Somebody else was in the apartment. A small boy with deep-green eyes and dark hair walked into the kitchen.
‘Who’s this?’ Mishra smiled.
‘Alexei, say hello to Mishra. She’s come all the way from Australia to see us. This is my son, Alexei.’
‘Hello. Pleased to meet you.’ The boy held out his hand, a formal gesture of someone much older.
Mishra accepted his hand, squeezing gently. ‘Lovely to meet you too, Alexei.’ She sent a surprised look at Charlie over Alexei’s head. Charlie had a son?
‘Mama, I’m hungry. Did you bring the milk?’
Charlie pointed to the bench, and he picked up the carton and poured some over a plate of cereal.
‘Can I eat this in my room, please, Mama?’
Charlie smiled. ‘Go on then. Just this once though, so I can talk with Mishra.’
‘I didn’t know you had a son.’
‘I’m surprised Sol didn’t tell you. It seems like he didn’t tell you a lot of things.’ Charlie laughed, but the sound rang hollow in Mishra’s ears.
There was nothing funny about this situation. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Had Sol been holding out on her?
‘Did you ask Sol about Philip? I thought he would have told you. Sol’s the one who passed on the information about the military’s project to me.’
Mishra nodded. Charlie was repeating what she’d already said – the same story she’d heard from Sol and Ra. ‘Sol didn’t think you’d know any more about Philip’s plan than he did. I was just hoping …’ Mishra sighed. ‘I was just hoping you’d heard from him.’
Charlie shook her head. ‘I haven’t had any contact. My editor in Sydney rang after the website went live. He said the police and military were a bit pissed off and to get rid of any evidence I had, so I did.’
A bit pissed off. Mishra’s mind flew over the months since Philip’s disappearance – the constant questioning, the fear of what Philip might have done and where he was.
‘Can’t you tell me what’s happened? How is Philip missing? You could see he cared for you. What’s going on?’ Charlie asked.
‘He disappeared after the exposé. I thought – everyone thought he was dead. That’s what that creep Hebden put out. But then Raffe got in touch. You remember Raffe?’
Charlie nodded.
‘Raffe and Philip planned for Philip to disappear. They sailed from Sydney to Northland after the code went public. But Philip jumped ship before they berthed.’ Mishra swallowed. She was so tired and now her final lead had come to nothing. ‘We don’t know where he is.’
‘Apart from my editor, no one’s been in touch. I did have a visit from the police, trying to find out where I got the information from about the bee project.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘Of course not. Sources are confidential though the law around that’s been weakened a bit lately.’
Perhaps Charlie didn’t trust her enough to share if Philip had been in contact. One more try. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell me? There’s definitely no one else who’s been in touch?’
Charlie shook her head.
‘Yes, Mama – remember?’ Alexei was putting his plate in the sink. ‘The email from the man you told Sophie about. The man asking for help.’
Charlie pursed her lips, considering Alexei’s words. ‘You’re right, Alexei, but I think it’s just some nutter.’ She looked at Mishra. ‘I get those all the time. It wasn’t a name I recognised, just some initials. And I certainly didn’t speak to him about the story.’ She pulled out her laptop.
With her heart thumping, Mishra came around the table to look over Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Can I see?’
Charlie angled the laptop toward Mishra. ‘There you go. DH. See?’
Mishra read aloud. ‘I need your help. DH.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘DH. Oh, my God.’ Mishra ran cold then hot. ‘Damon Hunter is an alias. It’s Philip!’ She grasped the back of a chair, her legs suddenly too wobbly to sustain her weight. ‘He’s alive.’ She had to contact him, right now. She pulled out her phone. ‘Can I take down that email address?’
‘Be my guest.’
Mishra fumbled the password into her phone. ‘Please don’t tell anyone about this message, Charlie. I think he’s still in danger.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Charlie’s voice was harsh.
Alarmed, Mishra stopped tapping. ‘The ADF – that bloody Hebden – put out an article saying he was dead.’
‘Yes, I saw the article. But it didn’t mention names.’
‘The ADF were telling us – me and Philip’s mum – that Philip was dead. We didn’t know any better till last week when I heard from Raffe.’ Mishra swallowed away the dryness in her throat. ‘The day after Hebden proclaimed him dead one of the ADF investigators turned up at my house. It was Philip’s father.’
Charlie’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘Philip’s father was on the investigating team? That doesn’t seem right.’
‘It was a favour from Hebden. Philip’s dad – his name is Roberts – wasn’t convinced Philip was dead, and he was worried about what Hebden might do. Sounds like his relationship with Hebden has turned sour. Says Hebden has a shady past – I got the impression he was involved in criminal activities while on mission. And last week I had an anonymous letter saying, “Stop looking.”’ She couldn’t help wondering what the authorities would make of Charlie’s email if they got their hands on it.
Charlie leaned back in her chair and smiled at her
son. ‘Alexei, why don’t you hop in the shower? We’re going for a drive later.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mishra said. ‘I shouldn’t have talked in front of– ’
Charlie shook her head. ‘Philip’s not the only one needing to hide.’
Mishra looked down at Charlie. Her lips were pressed together like she was trying to hold back the words, or the tears.
‘Charlie?’ Mishra put a hand on her shoulder. Something was very wrong. Mishra pulled out the seat beside Charlie and sat down.
‘I’ve been giving evidence in a Europol investigation against a nasty piece of work. Calls himself The General. He’s involved in all sorts of criminal activity, mainly around Russia, but he has links everywhere.’ Charlie’s gaze flicked around the apartment as if she expected the General to suddenly appear. ‘I’m sure we were followed yesterday. I’m scared to death he’ll try and snatch Alexei – or that immigration will catch up with us.’
‘Alexei’s not your son?’
Charlie shook her head and bashed away a tear. ‘Well, it feels like he is. I love him, Mishra, like he’s my own. I was investigating a group of refugees hiding in the Caucasus, and I met Cristofer.’ She swallowed. ‘Alexei’s uncle. He begged me to take Alexei. The whole camp was infected by a poison spread by drones: the General’s work. We got away, but Cristofer is still in Europe, helping Europol with their investigation, and he’s so sick, Mishra. I’m trying to get him over here – but I don’t know …’
Mishra put an arm around Charlie’s shoulder. All this time she’d be banging on about Philip when Charlie was dealing with this. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlie. I had no idea.’
Charlie sniffed. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Find Philip.’ Charlie tried to smile. ‘One less shitty thing in the world.’ She reached across the table for a tissue. ‘There’s no one I can turn to. Just talking about it makes me feel a bit better. Alexei’s parents were murdered when Crimea was annexed. Everyone thinks Alexei is mine.’ Charlie’s green eyes bored into Mishra. ‘Our documents say he is. No one else here knows he’s not. Please, Mishra, keep it just between us.’
Mishra removed her notepad from her bag and scribbled down her number. ‘Of course. Take this, Charlie, and call me if you need to.’
Charlie ripped another leaf of paper from the notepad and held out her hand for Mishra’s pen. ‘I will, if you do likewise. Here’s mine.’
Mishra slipped the number, her notepad and her phone back into her shoulder bag and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go – I’ve got a talk at the university at eleven. Thanks for the address, and your number. Hang in there, Charlie: it’s amazing what you’re doing. Don’t forget we’re all here for you.’
Mishra waved at Alexei, just emerging from bathroom with wet hair sticking up every which way. Such a serious little boy; now she knew why.
Charlie followed her to the door.
‘Be careful, Charlie.’ Mishra hugged her. ‘And thank you, thank you so much.’
TWENTY-NINE
‘Could you tell me when we’ve reached the university, please?’ Mishra asked.
The bus driver nodded and handed her the change. She heaved her wheelie bag into the trolley rack, then swung into the single seat directly behind him.
What would she write to Philip? Was it him? The email was so brief. But the last line – DH. Damon Hunter. Of course it was him. She grinned. Where did this ridiculous thing called hope spring from? How many times did you have to bash it, starve it, and run over it, before it finally crawled under a rock and died?
But why had he contacted Charlie Breen and not her? Mishra’s excitement dimmed. Maybe he didn’t want to contact her by the usual channels for fear of being found out? The email address he used certainly gave no clues about his identity. She would follow suit. How far till the university? The bus was winding its way slowly through the center of town, a mini-canyon of shops and offices. Did she have time to set up a fake account?
Just do it!
She tapped furiously on the phone that she used to communicate with Ra – their spy phones, Ra called them. Better to be cautious. While she waited for her account to set up she opened the notepad app to construct her message. Philip was using his alias, so he didn’t want to be identified. How could she let him know it was her and that it was safe to be in contact?
What if it wasn’t Philip but someone fishing for information on him? Damn it. Why was everything so difficult? She tinkered with the message. Frangipani. That’s what she’d call herself. He knew that she loved them.
‘University, next stop.’
If she didn’t send it now, she’d have to wait until after work. That wouldn’t do. She checked the message, quietly murmuring its contents.
Dear DH
Charlie Breen passed your message to me.
I hope I can help you.
Please let me try.
Frangipani
Satisfied, she pushed send, adding a kiss to the touchscreen as it went. Imagine if it was him after all this time. The excitement was almost too much to bear. And now she’d just have to wait. Suddenly she was glad of the fireside chat and whatever else Astrid had planned. It would make the time fly.
‘University,’ called the driver as the bus rolled to a stop.
‘Thanks, driver,’ the first passenger said as she hopped off the bus.
New Zealanders were so polite. Mishra switched off her phone and slid it into her bag while she waited for the other passengers to file off. Last in line, she said a heartfelt thank you to the bus driver as well. Today there was a lot to be thankful for. At least for her. Alexei’s serious little face gave her pause. Charlie was helping Europol. Surely they would protect her and her family?
Mishra found Astrid in the atrium of Block 5. The paved courtyard was enclosed by a soaring glass ceiling and housed a coffee cart, seats and tables, assorted plants, and the entrances to a bookshop and what looked like the main offices.
‘Mishra.’ Astrid folded her into a hug. ‘You look –’ Astrid held her shoulders and peered into her face ‘– marvellous. The Wairarapa agreed with you, then?’
Mishra smiled. ‘I met your ex. Very personable. And all that clean air and quiet’ –too much of both, she thought– ‘were quite refreshing.’
‘We’ve just got time for a coffee.’ Astrid propelled her toward the coffee-cart. ‘My shout. What will you have? We can take them upstairs with us.’
‘Mochaccino, please.’ Mishra eyed the jars with oversized cookies balanced on the counter of the coffee-cart. She was probably too wired to take in any extra sugar and this was her third coffee this morning, counting the one she’d had at Charlie’s. Poor Charlie. How did the world get to be so screwed up?
‘Lots of external interest in your talk,’ Astrid said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘We’ll have people beaming in from around the country and a good number of students in the room with us.’
‘Beaming in?’
‘Think hangouts but life-size. You’ll see.’ Astrid handed her a coffee in a keep-cup. ‘Thought you might not have remembered to bring your own.’ She nodded at the cup and swept with her other hand toward the double doors into the office block.
‘Thanks.’ Mishra’s urge to switch her phone back on to see if Philip had responded warred with her anxiety about the so-called fireside chat. She followed Astrid into the lift. The floors were labeled with letters rather than numbers.
Curious. What other quirks was she about to encounter?
‘I’ll host the meeting,’ Astrid was saying, ‘just to get the ball rolling. The idea is to generate discussion.’
Mishra relaxed a little. It wasn’t all going to be on her.
On floor F they exited the lift and walked down a long hallway with several doors opening off it, all the way to the room at the end. Inside, a horseshoe of desks was arranged around a camera at the front. Behind the camera, the wall was lit by life-sized projections of rooms, some sti
ll empty, others slowly filling with people. Mishra counted six rooms. There were smaller squares too that projected images of individuals. People in their offices, by the looks of the bookshelves and windows. A couple of projections were blank.
‘The big rooms are the other universities. People can also join from their laptops. We don’t encourage that. We prefer people to go to central nodes so they meet up with others – it’s a better way of building the network. Also saves looking at an almighty patchwork of people, and coping with the inevitable audio disruptions.’
By the time Astrid was welcoming the participants the rooms in the other universities had filled up, and in their own room people squeezed around the horseshoe of desks with another layer of people standing behind them. Fireside chat it wasn’t, Mishra thought as Astrid introduced her – apart from the building heat.
‘Thank you, Dr. Lyon, for that introduction,’ she said. ‘I can see now why it’s called a fireside chat.’ Mishra tugged at the neckline of her tunic and puffed out a breath. The students around them smiled, and there was an appreciative murmur from the projections on the wall. ‘I’d really like the discussion to be led by you.’ She glanced around the horseshoe in the room and scanned the virtual rooms on the wall. ‘Does anyone want to start?’
Around her people raised their hands, physical and virtual.
‘Otago,’ Astrid said.
‘Dr. McKenzie.’ As best Mishra could make out, the woman had a white bob and wore glasses. ‘Prof. Zale, here. I was interested in your paper on AI that examined the implications of the language we use to describe the technology. Do you think the metaphors we use – artificial intelligence, machine learning – materially affect our approach to these technologies?’
‘Absolutely.’ She was on solid ground with this argument. It was well rehearsed in her paper and with her classes in Adelaide and – her mind skipped to her first dinner party at Philip’s – with Philip’s annoying flatmate, Brett. ‘I think our language goes further than just defining these technologies. The words we use to talk about AI evoke questions we don’t ask about other technologies. Planes fly but we don’t worry about how closely they resemble birds.’
