Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  As soon as Robertson hears the confession he texts his counterpart stateside. Mooney had already given instructions as the plane made its descent, in case they broke and confessed.

  ‘We’ll protect him Jessica,’ Mooney says, ‘I promise.’ Turns to the door and smiles.

  9

  Columbus, Boston

  Masen stands on the landing outside Maloney’s facing the parking lot. The buzzing neon sign above grabs his attention. Focusing on the blackened letters, he can’t help wondering what’s being discussed back inside. The idea of Sparks and Bozeman being alone together sets off alarm bells. It might take more than Bozeman’s larger-than-life personality to subjugate Sparks, but the way he was behaving, and the ease and speed Bozeman ingratiated himself only underpins Masen’s suspicions. He remembers the first time Bozeman introduced himself, like they were old friends easily finding the words to finish a previous discussion.

  Sparks is a grown man, Masen concedes. He knows not to talk shop with people outside the Company. Besides, Masen wants to finish reading Pascal’s letter and work the rest of his thoughts about this DUST program. It’s the reason he’s leaving. The reason why his toes and the back of his neck are cold. He flicks up his collar and greets the night air. Feels exhausted so thinks he shouldn’t drive.

  Not far from his car he notices a smudge of color on the windscreen. He puts it down to reflections of broken glass in the passenger door. The noise from inside fades, replaced by crunching stones underfoot which reminds him of snow. Moving closer, he squints at something stuck on the windscreen. Not shards of glass but a business card. He dislodges it: Finch & Sons Towing. He missed it in the confusion and anger his car was about to be towed, earlier. Turns it over and looks around.

  The tired looking fence with several holes in it where local kids probably push through doesn’t fill him with confidence. Calculates the odds of his car not being here tomorrow as a sure thing. Neither does he want to leave the car outside the apartment building. The passenger window didn’t fix itself while he was inside. At the very least it’s an open invitation for vermin to take shelter. On the farm, how many times had he jumped in the truck only to disturb an animal sheltering from the cold or heat. No doubt any vermin seeking shelter in Columbus would be the two-legged variety. Which leads him to think that maybe Bozeman did him a disservice by calling off the tow truck.

  Masen spots Bozeman’s tanned Ford Crown Victoria parked out on the street. It gives him an idea. He dials the number on the card and practices a gruff voice. The Porsche needs work. Thinks now’s a good a time as ever to get the work done. In his best Bozeman voice he demands a reason why the white Porsche parked at Maloney’s wasn’t towed earlier.

  The mention of Detective Bozeman confuses the man: recent owner of Finch & Sons Towing. He’s never heard of a Detective Bozeman but is afraid of loosing the lucrative Boston South District towing agreement so doesn’t question the request.

  ‘Detective,’ the man says grabbing a pen and pad and starts writing down the details he already knows, ‘I’ll pick this one up myself right away.’ Only too pleased to help. He paid a premium for the business based on that one contract. His finger on the job written down—eight jobs earlier—in his book. Stabs a finger on the details as he confirms with Detective Bozeman. His most reliable driver had called in the job.

  ‘Thanks.’ Masen looks quizzically at the phone and hangs up. Makes a mental note to call tomorrow and arrange to have the car delivered to a mechanic. On the way back from work he will drop off the eight track system to be installed.

  He pulls the bag and laptop from the car, walks to the street and hails a passing taxi. The driver is annoyed at the short ride, but warms as a twenty dollar note greases his palm.

  ‘Left at the next street,’ Masen says rubbing the envelope in his pocket, his mind trying to wrap itself around too large a problem.

  ‘Hey! Ain’t this the street where some old lady and her dog were killed?’ The large man asks biting into a burrito that leaks down his shirt.

  ‘She wasn’t old,’ Masen says in a monotone tone looking at the building ahead. Checks to see if the dirty green Lincoln Town had come back. It hadn’t.

  Points. ‘Here.’

  ‘Okay, you take it easy mister,’ the man says pulling up. Looks searching then wipes his fingers on his pants and takes whatever’s folded in front of him without looking.

  Masen gets out and taps the roof.

  Lucia has a sister living in Palermo, Italy. She gets cash, personal effects. That’s what Bozeman had said. But he doesn’t feel comfortable going through her drawers, rifling through clothes, her life, it’s an intrusion. More questions come. Probate. Remembers his earlier commitment to call the morgue and arrange to identify her body. But it’s too late to call now. Will he find surfaces dusted for prints inside? Likely he will have to make funeral arrangements.

  I have to call the sister.

  In the foyer, the wood has absorbed the stained memory and hidden it, locking the images deep within the grain. The space presses down on him. And he wonders how he is going to get through the next few days: questions from personnel, working closely with Black while the they track down who’s responsible for forging the Director’s instruction. But figures it’s like wading through knee-high wet concrete. Exactly like it has been the last few days of pushing forward despite the world pushing back. He will get through it. Doing the impossible has topped up his self-confidence. Sparks said it himself. Byzantine Candor has dozens of people working on it from multiple agencies. And it took the two of them to plan and execute a successful rescue mission.

  He sees the slight lightening in the doorframe where the police tape was stuck to the wood and had pulled some of the varnish off when it was removed. The handle to Lucia’s apartment turns and clicks open. Masen drops the bag inside beside the door, the laptop strewn on the coffee table where a magazine is splayed face down, presumably the last page Lucia had read, maybe just before Lane killed her. Is he claiming that as fact, that this Amanda Lane is the killer?

  A pile of knitting and craft magazines cascade down the couch as he twists and pulls the letter out from his pocket and starts reading before completely settling into a lying position; feet take turns leveraging off shoes, an extended sigh momentarily drowns out the noise of the refrigerator motor.

  He scans over the section about Pascal’s night with Dana and his first instruction to ‘keep Masen on the North Korean assignment’ and quickly finds the spot before Bozeman announced himself in the parking lot. Every detail is allowed time to percolate in his mind, partly because he struggles to keep the two halves of the pages aligned, partly trying to understand Pascal’s state of mind. Suicide. Shot himself in the head in front of the Director. Then it hits him. Pascal was writing the letter when we spoke in his office. He was so calm. He sits up and moves to the edge of the couch and continues reading.

  ‘“My second instruction has only just been handed to me. It is the catalyst that made me come to the rational conclusion to end my life.”’ Masen goes cold reading the words. ‘“I didn’t mean any harm to come your way, you deserve better.”’ Masen grounds his feet. Thinks, he tried to warn me. Remembering the meeting he had with Pascal, where he talked about honesty, integrity and the importance of teamwork.

  You confessed in a way, no, you pleaded for help didn’t you? Maybe you were looking for a way out.

  He reads on. ‘“You need to understand the reason I am being blackmailed. The person behind this is trying to place top-secret army data on normal network protocols. DUST is too valuable to fall into unknown hands. Do not let this happen. Somehow they knew you were working on North Korea.”’

  Normal network protocols. They?

  Black said the Director wanted all data secured in the Barn over the next two days and refused to block all access. Are they working together?

  It’s an eerie feeling. A dead man’s words speaking through time, directly t
o Masen, and he can’t help but feel guilty. Guilty for accusing Pascal of not having the strength for this kind of work even though it remained unspoken between them.

  Was killing yourself in front of the Director knowing I would read this message your last act of trying to uncover this conspiracy? Are you telling me something more? Masen shakes the paper. ‘“I have two suspects but no evidence, only gut instincts and coincidences. Assistant Director Zane Black and the Director. Good luck and goodbye.”’

  No more?

  Turns the paper over.

  Blank.

  Masen re-reads aloud. ‘“Zane Black and the Director.”’

  The paper falls like a heavy leaf and Masen leans back into the couch rubbing his face and trying to weave the loose strands together. His brain is buzzing. Follow the logic. Zane Black is going to take over the Barn. He wants the network to remain open for a few days. The thought cements in his brain. He stands, bites at a nail and paces.

  The Director?

  Masen isn’t sure if he even fits in, but he was there when Pascal killed himself. You planned that spectacle, didn’t you?

  A message? About what?

  ‘And what about me? How do I fit into all of this?’ he says aloud. ‘Why keep me on North Korea?’

  Masen moves between couch and the kitchen, confused, overwhelmed, not knowing what to do. He stabs a finger in the air. ‘Sparks can be trusted, maybe Nash, but that’s it.’

  The letter solidifies the thought of calling Treagle to lock things down so that Black can’t access the data.

  He stops kicking Tripod’s water bowl. Watches as water sloshes and spills on the floor next to the meal his dog never got to finish. It looks pristine, untouched, waiting to be eaten. He opens the fridge. Picks up a plate of leftovers taut with plastic wrap and decides to bin it. Somehow the connection to the dead makes it feel unsafe to eat. Opens the door wider. The milk looks okay, sniffs, but again, that connection. The bin smells. So does he come to think of it. And decides to take a shower.

  Turning on the hot water and semi-undressing he remembers: Sparks is staying the night. He turns the tap off and walks out the apartment. Walking upstairs to his apartment he decides for a quick clean. He gathers all the clothes on the floor into one pile and pushes it under the bed with his foot. Gives the sink a quick clean and gives the room a once-over; nothing needs to exceed expectations. He straightens the bed sheets then closes the door.

  All the while a shadowy figure watched and waited. Perched outside the apartment building beside the handrail out of reach from the porch light. The man watched through a window as Masen walked out of the apartment and up the stairs. The man seizes the opportunity while Masen was upstairs and slinks over to the door and takes out a small black bag. Leathered fingers pull down his beanie, then quickly works the lock with metal instruments. A click. Assured of no witnesses from his accomplice who leans against the car, twitching on his feet, rubbing and blowing hands, enters quietly through the door, then into the downstairs apartment. He quickly locates the laptop and places it in a bag he finds on the floor next to the door and moves down the hallway. The bathroom light is on. The small metal instrument put back into its pouch and zipped up. He surveys the apartment. There are a few possible ambush positions; crouched behind the kitchen bench; concealed in the darkness of the bedroom; next to the door as soon as Masen enters.

  Masen walks back through the door, flicks it closed with an elbow and proceeds to the bathroom. Strips off his shirt and has jeans partially undone when he notices a figure reflected on the shower door lunging toward him. Too late to avoid completely. Instinctively grabs his head with both hands and braces for impact. The force knocks him to the ground, but the intruder is caught off guard, and he too tumbles on the vinyl floor. Masen rolls and uses the intruder’s mass as leverage. He catches a towel wrapped around a towel rail to pull himself up and manages to get to his feet as hands try to pull him down. Masen kicks, connects with the mass on the floor. ‘You came back for more, asshole,’ Masen yells as the man squirms and moans. The man manages to grab onto one of Masen’s legs but Masen lets it fall into the man’s stomach. Now hugs both legs and rolls. Masen puts out his hands to stop his head smashing into the floor. A weight presses down on his chest. He can’t breath. Frantically searching for something to grab, Masen finds and pulls on the plastic shower curtain. Not wanting to loose the advantage, the man grabs to stop him, but Masen moves sideways violently. The weight slides off, the man between Masen and the wall. Holding the curtain with both hands, it tears off and an elbow smashes into the man’s face. Masen plants a foot on the ground and quickly stands as arms thud the ground searching. With a free hand Masen repeatedly punches the man hard in what he guesses is his head, giving him the advantage to stand.

  ‘Did you enjoy killing them?’ Masen grips the towel rail and kicks the man repeatedly. Sweat rolls down his face and his breath sprays mist into the mirror in front. Contorted anger staring back at him; the pain of loss and terror he is next.

  ‘…killed Lucia…and my dog.’

  The moans and gurgling sounds only intensify Masen’s rage as images echo of Lucia’s last moment of anguish and torture. All that he imagines she suffered is acutely focused and funneled into muscles that smash against flesh. Between volleys, Masen can’t make out his assailant, his head covered with a black beanie and body curled into a protective ball. Rage blinds his peripheral vision and he simply fails to notice another man standing in the doorway of the bathroom. By the time the man pulls out his weapon it’s too late. Masen turns towards a flash.

  The impact point of the projectile is spot on. It hits Masen in the side and he goes down instantly. The man on the ground, kicks the jerking body off as he gathers himself and is offered a hand. Panting, yet standing, he watches as two electrodes carrying two-hundred and fifty-thousand volts surge through Masen’s body, jolting him, frothing saliva in the sides of his mouth.

  What’s going on? what’s happening to me? Masen makes out two shape.

  ‘Keep the flow going. I need to inject him.’ The assailant pants and grasps his head.

  Vision flickers and fades. Masen hears the instructions and commands his body to fight, to do something, anything, but it’s useless, his body isn’t his to command.

  The accomplice hands the man a leather bag. He withdraws a hand from his beaten head and takes out a syringe filled with liquid. ‘Just one more second.’

  Bozeman uses one hand to push the plunger in fully into Masen’s arm. Finished, and as the substance enters the bloodstream, Bozeman slumps heavily on the floor. ‘Your lad’s certainly got some kick in him,’ he says pulling off the beanie. ‘But I think that fourth beer took some of the battering.’

  Sparks watches as Masen’s eyes battle to stay open. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want this to happen.’

  Sparks walks past Bozeman and Masen, bends down and picks up the heavy end of the now unconscious Masen. Bozeman pauses, holds up a hand that says wait a minute. Stands once his breathing settles and grabs both feet and pushes up with a knee. They stumble at first until both have a good grip, holding the deadweight of Masen. Past the kitchen Bozeman nods towards the door. ‘Grab the bag. It has the laptop and I think some clothes in it.’ And pushes over the coffee table with a foot, brakes a few commemorative plates and smashes a tall lamp against a side table. ‘Needs to look like a robbery.’

  Sparks nods and hooks both straps over his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bozeman says softly as Masen’s head bumps against the doorframe. ‘We’re even.’ And pauses on the steps to again catch his breath, nods and continues. They finally rest against the frame of the Ford Crown once Masen’s body glides over the back seat and his bag is thrown on top.

  ‘You drive,’ Bozeman taps Sparks on the shoulder. ‘You did good back there.’

  ‘Betraying a friend’s a good thing?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Bozeman says handing over the car keys to S
parks’ shaking hand. ‘The boss said if we didn’t take him, he’d be dead by morning.’

  The car indicator makes the only sound as they make a right. ‘Welcome to Army Counter Intelligence,’ Bozeman says. ‘You’re the General’s problem now. I suggest you don’t mess up.’

  ‘Where to?’ Sparks asks looking over to the backseat, almost convinced he’s done Masen some huge favor by stunning him with the Taser. Bozeman flinches touching a gash in is head. ‘Ouch!…Hanscom Air Force Base.’

  Masen wakes and sees Sparks sitting opposite, facing him, transfixed on a laptop while stuffing a donut in his mouth. A table separates them.

  Sparks looks up and asks, ‘John, you Ok?’ A look. More shock than surprise, a reaction to Masen’s fist sailing squarely towards his nose. ‘Ow!’ Sparks yelps. ‘Let me explain.’ Holds his nose with one hand and the other out to stop another attack.

  ‘Where am I?’ Masen demands looking around the confined space.

  Sparks looks out the plane window and shrugs.

  10

  Yangpu District, Shanghai, China

  Agent Bill Feldman arrives in bustling Shanghai after a long bus ride through the countryside. He looks like any backpacker seeking out and discovering an authentic China experience, unshaven, unshowered and unkempt. In case of capture, there is nothing on him to reveal his true identity. The pollution is worse, but he’s glad to be out of his squalid flat in Dalian where he couldn’t use the microwave and watch TV at the same time without blowing a fuse. In his backpack is a forged passport with the name Ted Smith written on the inside, a little cash, soiled clothes and cheap trinkets for phantom relatives back home; a snow globe with the Great Wall and small panda key-rings. It was confirmed late last night via authenticated message that all supplies for the mission were secured at the pre-determined collection points. After the mission it’s home.