In contrast, Bozeman’s hefty body heaves itself over.
‘Wait until the he steps up to bat,’ Masen says and can’t help but compare the sets of legs as Bozeman passes.
‘Yeah well, he looks like he can take a few fast balls and still be standing,’ Sparks notes as Bozeman arrives at the table. The Eagles, Tequila Sunrise brakes out with a hypnotic twang of a guitar.
‘Amos, this is Travis,’ Masen says standing, making ready to leave. ‘He’s an acquaintance of mine.’
‘Damn, another spook,’ Bozeman says placing two beers on the table and shuffles over where Masen just stood, takes a swig and holds out a welcoming hand.
‘Bet there’s a joke about that right, like when an Irishman, a Scotsman and an Englishman walk into a pub.’ Bozeman laughs. ‘Nice to meet you, Travis.’
Masen watches in amazement. Sparks’ eyes light up, like he’s meeting his idol. ‘No thanks, Amos.’ Masen slides the beer over to Sparks. ‘I’m going to the bathroom and then I’m leaving.’
‘Well, alright then…drink up,’ Bozeman says charging his glass to Sparks. ‘Next round’s on you.’ His bellowing laughter erupting between gulps.
‘A real undercover detective,’ Sparks says. ‘I’m honored.’
‘Why, yes,’ he says looking comically around as if trying to find something. ‘My ex used to say most days there’s too much of the real me.’ And slaps the table.
‘I can see no boundaries are in danger of being crossed tonight, gentlemen,’ Masen says excusing himself.
‘Come on, John,’ Sparks says to Masen’s back as he disappears through a door to the bathrooms, ‘lighten up, work’s over. Just us hanging out.’
Masen stares dead ahead relieving himself, thinking of anything other than the dire state of the toilet. Probably last cleaned when the Eagles wrote that song. It gives him space to think of the letters scribed on the table. It might be an acronym: dual state teleportation. Allows the thought to develop. The secrecy surrounding the data, the attacks, it has to be something big. The paper he and the professor worked on suggested at least the theoretical possibility of collapsing a complex system into a Bose-Einstein condensate of entangled wave functions, only to collapse the waves at a pre-determined location.
But it was just a footnote.
Teleportation, unlimited by the speed of light and distance; a world paradigm shifting moment any government would kill to acquire, or protect. If it’s true, how did Nash speed the processors to such a power to simultaneously track every particle, every photon, every electron to hold the state? The thought still swirls unresolved as he walks back to the table.
I have to get out of here. I have to read this letter.
Bozeman and Travis are hunched, their heads low and twitch in surprise as Masen arrives back.
‘Right, I’m going,’ Masen says. ‘You coming, Travis?’ he adds hoping to prompt Sparks to finish the conversation. ‘Emilio’s do a fine rib sub.’
‘Jumbo, it’s early, and Travis here is parched,’ Bozeman explains hoping Masen leaves. Masen sits next to Bozeman and gestures Sparks should go with him.
‘No way, sorry. Work is Chaos,’ Sparks says with a smile. ‘Not much we can do until tomorrow. I’ll see you later. After all, it’s my shout.’
‘Fine, I’ve got my own things to worry about,’ Masen says.
Finishing his beer, Bozeman slams his fist down, rattling the lights above, not only catching himself by surprise, but causes the barman and most faces in the bar to turn around.
‘Hey, if you can’t settle down, I’ll call the cops,’ the barman yells. Bozeman chuckles and Masen takes the interruption as a perfect time to leave. ‘Goodnight Amos, Travis. Just buzz apartment one and I’ll let you in.’
6
U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan
Jessica Bradbury sits curled in a comfortable chair next to a window in a cordoned off section of a hospital ward. Legs tucked under like she used to do when she was twelve-years-old. Outside there’s a hint of snow. A corner of her loose fitting hospital gown billows in a warm breeze from a vent that keeps her close to sleep. Another debriefing session is scheduled soon. Clutched in her hands is a cup of warm chocolate. Something her taste buds are having trouble remembering, the feeling surging as soon as lips break the surface. Life in north Korea was very different. Stretching out a finger, she can see where her skin has started smoothing out. She glances up at her reflection staring back. There is no masking the stark contrast of her gaunt complexion against healthy faces which come and go of the medical staff that look puffed, fat even.
Finishing her drink, she runs a hand across her face and places the mug on the floor, pulls up socks and fiddles with the yellow ID tag on her left wrist trying to recall the events that led to her abduction, her time in North Korea, and her escape. Blotches of painful memories arrive unannounced, lagging her will to remember. Looks past herself to the mountains beyond. It’ll be some time before she’s able to go for a run.
A smell, ‘musk’ and ‘cheap’, were the words giving up in association with her last day at university when she was abducted by a woman pretending to be a visitor only to wake hours later on a plane. She was told by the doctor her physical injuries would heal, though he couldn’t be sure if her nightmares would ever loosen their grip. ‘I’m not a psychologist Jessica. Drugs will help…a little,’ the doctor explained when asked if there was anything he could do to stop the noises at night.
Holds her legs tight.
A muffled sound of a chair being dragged across carpet.
‘Remember me?’ a voice asks. The man withdraws a pen and clicks it ready. ‘Colonel Lance Robertson from Army Intelligence. We spoke brief yesterday morning…’
Silence.
Slowly opens her eyes. She remembers the colonel and his disrespectful attitude towards the nursing staff as they tried to stop him from asking too many questions.
‘No…sorry,’ Bradbury replies. ‘Where am I? When can I see my family?’ Wipes eyes and sniffs.
He points out the window and writes something down on his clipboard. ‘The Cherry Blossoms are a rare variety. They blossom in autumn and winter.’ Repeatedly clicks the pen. ‘You don’t mind if I take notes?’
Bradbury shakes her head.
‘I asked you yesterday if you remember how you escaped.’ Studies her face for any sign she’s hiding the truth. ‘You’ve been missing for four years. I know you must have had help.’
She turns to the window saying nothing.
Robertson leans forward and looks down at the small student ID photo of her stapled to the file. Thinks, she looks nothing like her photo. ‘I need to tell my superiors something.’ Points at her. ‘At least can you tell me how you got into the army clothes you were found in?’
Bradbury ignores his reflection and studies her finger, pulls at her face. She remembers talking briefly to Masen from the phone in her room that didn’t work when she tried calling her family but knows to keep it secret. Kim and John are the two people she trusts, the two people who saved her life. Robertson for all she knows was part of the reason John couldn’t involve the CIA.
‘Your rescue has created diplomatic complications with China and Russia. Your clothes, how did you get into them?’ And quieter. ‘What do you remember?’
‘…Kim dressed me,’ her tone questioning. ‘He shot them all and…he…carried me.’ Faces Robertson. ‘Can I see him? Can I talk to my parents?’
‘That’s good, you’re remembering more. Yes, Kim is here, but first we need to know everything about your time in North Korea and as much detail about your escape as you can remember. Then you can talk to your parents.’
‘Didn’t you rescue us?’ Bradbury asks.
‘We picked you up from a Chinese registered ship in the Sea of Japan. But we don’t know how you managed to escape Rason and get yourselves into a container.’
Before Robertson asks more questions she turns and look
s past him at a nurse carrying two trays. Robertson turns to investigate.
‘Excuse me, colonel,’ a nurse announces. ‘I have Ms Bradbury’s meal.’
Bradbury slowly pushes up on her elbows. The nurse hands a tray with a ham sandwich and a banana to outstretched hands. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ she says smiling. ‘Try to eat a little of each.’
‘Thanks, that’ll be all,’ Robertson says waving the nurse away. ‘Kim tells us you had outside help. Do you know who helped you?’
Bradbury smuggles her thoughts out in a swallow. Thinks of the impossible message: ‘No CIA, only Slick.’ Shakes her head and looks confused. ‘As far as I know we didn’t have any outside help.’
Robertson clicks the pen, stabs it in his breast pocket, closes his notebook and pushes back in the chair and stands. ‘Goodbye, Jessica. I’ll give Kim your regards,’ he says wearing a sinister squint in his eyes that sends a shiver down her spine. Turns and walks down the corridor. Bradbury pinches off a piece of banana.
Outside the room, Robertson peers through the thin glass slit in the door. Kim Pak lifts his hand as much as he can restrained in handcuffs chained to the bed’s metal frame. Pulls his head close to the table to drain a can of Coke, twists at an awkward angle, lifting his head forward like some kind of bird.
‘I’ve just had a word with Jessica,’ Robertson says opening the door and walking in. ‘Want more? Want another can?’
‘Please,’ Pak replies with an extended tongue catching a droplet running down the side of the can.
‘Answer me one question first.’
Pak nods eagerly.
Robertson unfurls his arms and grabs tight the end of the bed with both hands. ‘Jessica told me you had outside help.’ His voice calm and gentle. ‘You can fill in the detail. She’s having trouble remembering, but I told her you’re a stand up guy, that you like to help.’
‘Sure,’ Pak says straining, ‘just get me out of these things.’ The metal cuffs clunk and make scrapping noises.
Robertson’s demeanor changes, he jerks the bed side to side. ‘You were found wearing a DPRK uniform. North Korea and the US are technically still at war. You’re a prisoner of war, maybe a spy. We shoot spies.’
Pak twists against the restraints. His body thrown uncontrollably across the covers.
Robertson stops. ‘Tell us what we want to know.’
Pak screws up his face and lurches forward. ‘I’ve already given you all that I know about the nuclear program. Where they source the raw material from, how it makes it into the country, and where all the sites, that I know of, are located. Why would I lie about our escape? There was no outside help.’ Pak slumps back on the bed as he remembers the events. ‘Just Jessica, me, and a lot of luck.’
A knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Robertson says gesturing with an arm, takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the handcuffs. ‘Welcome to the United States of America Mr Pak. Congratulations,’ looks at the tray with a hamburger fries and a can of soft drink on it, ‘like most teenagers you’re already on your way to an early death.’ Robertson walks to the door. ‘I need to get permission. But you’ll most likely see Bradbury this afternoon.’
Pak smiles rubbing his wrist.
Outside Robertson takes out his cell phone. Mooney answers. ‘What’s the situation? Any news about the escape, and who sent the message?’
‘Nothing. Both are sticking to their stories. I’ll bring them together and see what they whisper to each other. Or I can use other techniques—’
‘Keep them away from prying eyes,’ Mooney says. ‘General Morgan’s organizing a space just for us. Get ready to move them. And no one working for me will ever water-board. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty,’ Mooney says standing over and looking down on an unconscious Peter Nash, heavily sedated since Kennedy.
Robertson overhears the plane’s speakers squelch. ‘We have started our descent. It’s clear all the way to the deck.’
7
Boston, Massachusetts
Swirling the glass of scotch, Black looks out the window toward the park, the fire only just becoming visible through the trees. He hasn’t ordered food, yet every time the cute waitress passes she asks what takes his fancy. The low neck line of her red and white checkered top and tone legs caught his attention when she first walked over.
‘Have you made up your mind?’ she asks with pen and pad poised. It comes across as an ultimatum: order or leave. ‘May I suggest the…’ He turns and makes a show of picking up the menu, and deciding he doesn’t care what’s on offer places it lazily back down.
Takes a sip and dips a finger in.
Licks it.
‘A plain hamburger with one slice of cheese,’ he says looking down at her legs, ‘no sauce and no pickles?’ Runner or yoga he guesses.
She smiles, a mix of discomfort and understanding without writing up his order. ‘Sure, anything else?’ Points to the nearly empty glass. ‘Another one?’ Her face has lost all patience.
He hovers a hand over the glass and shakes his head.
The commotion of the room as people jostle about, push past and congregating at the front of the restaurant steals her attention. People looking questioning as fire and smoke rise into the sky, painting the clouds dull oranges and yellows. He cranes his head watching the few vacant seats against the window quickly fill. In the next booth a kid kneels on a parent’s lap for a better view. But Black knows. A strike. A spark. The whomph of gasoline.
Two toddlers, ginger haired freckled twins accompanied by their mother ask if they can squeeze together on the other side. Black stares back with a slight grimace. The mother smiles awkwardly back, grabs hold of her kids as if she mistakenly offered them up as an entree, says, ‘Thanks mister.’
Black raises his glass. He could kill both kids, their heads slump in their mom’s lap before she’d register them dead.
‘Make that to go,’ Black adds, his gaze lingering on the waitress. ‘…Befany.’ She straightens up a little, purses lips and walks off.
Just another rude customer.
One of the kids contorts his face. Black makes a gun of his finger and shoots. Blows. The kid cries. Mom didn’t see, but gives him a look anyway.
In the next booth a large man with crumbs sticking like Velcro to his beard looks past his girlfriend. ‘Ya see anything hun?’ she asks. Heavily tattooed, the woman shifts for a better view, her neck lathered in ink, an eclectic mix of cobwebs, skulls and illegible writing, a piercing in her cheek that has Black questioning when did it become a ‘thing’.
Looking back through the window, his heart races replaying the events over in his mind. People brush against him but he is somewhere else. He’s remembering the silence and complete understanding and connection he felt with Tony. The smell of it. The tang of blood and sulphur, the sounds, the look, the joy. Sorrow as palpable as the remnants of his drink. The cold condensed glass lays idle in his hand, the napkin a sodden mess. Drains the glass. Lets the last of the scotch hang in the back of his mouth, imagining it’s blood trickling down the dead man’s throat.
Outside two cop cars arrive, angling their cars to stop all traffic, lights flashing, sirens fall silent. The cops move to the sidewalk and gesture to the curious crowd to move on. A body discovered.
A text message arrives. He fishes for the cell in his sweat pants as the waitress arrives with bill and hamburger in hand. He makes her wait as he flips it open and reads the message. It’s from the cleaner: ‘job complete.’
8
U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan
Partially conscious, Professor Peter Nash fumbles for the side table that isn’t there. His hand is limp. He wants to read the report on the latest DUST test. And not feeling the thick file or side table turns questioning, eyes closed. Events are coming back haphazardly. He remembers Mooney’s arm cracking him to the floor of the hanger, a loud gunshot, and waking up in hospital
a few days later with a headache of biblical proportions. Remembers words about a spy being killed, and that the test was nothing more than a lure to flush him out. I can’t be dreaming, he thinks. Not if Mooney’s playing the staring role.
He feels pain in his ears and his arm strains against a clank of metal. A moan leaks, carried out on a slow and sustained breath. His throat is dry in the moist-less air-conditioned plane. Collapses back to sleep.
Dr Carlton was turning the page of a glossy magazine when she heard Nash stir and mumble something inaudible, paused to watch her patient start to wake from an induced sleep, and seeing Nash go back to sleep, lazily drifted back to an article about the number of luxury brands opening stores in Shanghai. It was a long flight with a short refueling stop at Midway Atoll where she alighted and enjoyed a few minutes of fresh air and sun.
Soon the plane lands and is given taxi instructions from the control tower to park inside the secured area at the southern most end of the apron.
Mooney stands and bends slightly looking through the small window at the spectacle outside—a dozen armed personnel run out, surround the plane and erect a ten meter exclusion zone with a curtain of red bollards—then to Nash who starts moving more rapidly as the sedative loses its grip. He had arranged with the commander of the base a section to be used exclusively for him and his team.
‘As far as the base is concerned,’ Mooney says, ‘we’re part of a CIA run rendition program. No one blabs a thing.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ both soldiers who stretchered Nash on the plane reply in unison.
Dr Carlton runs a finger down the spine of her magazine—it squeaks on the glossy paper—and simply nods.
Two ground crew wearing gloves, beanies and thick coats chock the wheels then walk to open the cargo hatch and wait as a trolley is wheeled out from a nondescript single story building.
Iris Rising Page 4
