Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  A soldier lowers the barrier as Mooney and Robertson start walking.

  ‘And his two snakes in the closet?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘Rubbish or recycle, you choose,’ Mooney says. ‘Chuck wants me to clean up my mess when we leave.’ He doesn’t know which snake whispers in Black’s ear, not that it’ll matter in a day or two. He’ll be gone, and Black will be stuck cleaning up the mess.

  ‘What’s that motto scuba divers say?’ Mooney continues as they approach the stairs.

  ‘Leave nothing but bubbles, take nothing but photos,’ Robertson says.

  Both men laugh.

  ‘Recycle Boy Wonder?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘No,’ Mooney says stopping in his tracks, thrusts out his hand to stop Robertson. ‘We could have left Masen for Black if we wanted him dead. Depending on what happens with the final test I’ve got something special planned for him.’ Mooney lowers his arm and continues walking. ‘Plus, we need a poster with a face on it when it hits the fan.’

  They stop at the bottom of the stairs. Robertson nods and says looking up, ‘Want me to leave Masen for you?’

  ‘No. I’ll be the good cop. Remember it has to look good. Make the cuffs dig in a bit. Make ‘em squirm.’ Then looking behind to the soldiers forming a perimeter: ‘The boys seem to appreciate a good frog march.’

  Robertson suppresses a smile that tickles at his face. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Lets go bag us some terrorists.’ Mooney thrusts one of the black hoods into Robertson’s hand who takes off and runs up the stairs two at a time using the handrail to propel himself.

  The steward, who only a minute earlier took back her pen from Masen stands with her back pressing hard against the wall as Robertson bounds up the stairs and bursts through the door and grabs a surprised looking Masen by the head. Thrusts him hard against the bathroom door. Tensing, Masen pushes back and throws out his hands but fails to stop his left cheek slamming hard into the door.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Struggle Masen,’ Robertson says through clenched teeth. ‘It’ll look good.’

  ‘Get off me,’ Masen moans. Recent wounds awake with splitting pain. He kicks backward to the groin, which temporarily releases the pressure only to return more forcibly. Kicks Masen’s legs apart and struggles securing plastic ties around his wrists, but manages to strap both hands just as Mooney walks casually past.

  ‘Tagged, bagged and gagged,’ Robertson pants stuffing a cloth in Masen’s mouth and placing a hood over his head.

  Sparks revolts back in fear having seen what just happened. ‘Get off him. Stop! We need to speak to the general.’ Sparks’s words trail off against the adrenalin and excitement seeing who he suspects is General Mooney approaching with a black cloth in his hand.

  What’s happening? Masen thinks. He sees through a small slit where the fabric peels away from his skin and lets in a thin shard of light.

  Mooney grabs Sparks by the collar and lifts him to his feet. It’s all happening too fast. ‘Welcome to the Army Sparks. That lazy useless piece of flab Bozeman told me you did good work back home.’ Raises his voice above the fog of confusion while he stuffs a laptop into a bag on the floor and picks it up and swings it over a shoulder.

  ‘Let me go,’ Sparks mumbles.

  ‘Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.’ Throws the hood and gag at Sparks who catches it against his chest. ‘Your choice. Put it on, or I’ll make you put it on.’

  Sparks does as he’s told: shoves the gag in his mouth and places the hood over his head. Mooney secures the plastic ties around his wrists and adjusts the hood.

  Inside the building, the group pass a soldier guarding the entrance to the cordoned off section of the building. Robertson leads along a corridor then stops, turns to a door on the left. In the room light reflects off the vinyl floor and under Masen’s hood.

  ‘In here,’ Robertson says nudging him inside.

  Masen feels his warm breath against an ear. Robertson pulls off the hood and Masen squints in the bright light.

  ‘I’ll untie you, but only if you don’t try anything,’ Robertson cautions holding up a pair of wire cutters. ‘I’ll push you to the ground if you fight. First, I’m doing him.’

  Walks over to Sparks.

  Sure. Masen nods eagerly. Slowly the gag falls out, like a magician extracting rainbow colored cloth from under a sleeve, unending. He coughs and runs his tongue over dry lips.

  ‘The spectacle was for your own protection,’ Robertson says to both as he cuts Sparks free, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Masen.

  Masen’s head and sides are in pain. Robertson walks back to Masen but he hasn’t taken his third step when Masen swings hard with the best aim a fuzzy focus can offer. He connects off target but moves enough bulk to knock Robertson to the ground and to keep him upright. Stumbling at the fuzzy figure on the floor, Masen kicks widely, two moans ring out.

  If only my hands were free I could get a better swing.

  ‘You deserved that,’ Mooney erupts in laughter. ‘Masen got you fair and square.’ Then staring at Sparks: ‘Not going to back up your friend?’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ Sparks says. ‘I need to talk to you about DUST.’

  Exhausted, Masen stumbles leaning against a wall then sinks to the floor. Robertson curled up in a ball next to him.

  ‘This is all about DUST,’ Mooney says looking at Masen.

  Sparks speaks up. ‘Operation Byzantine Candor is about to kill two Chinese—’

  ‘Stand down soldier!’ Mooney turns and yells in Sparks’ face. It’s about setting the ground rules: prioritizing and evaluating. Seniority and the chain of command. ‘I’m Army, and so are you. Bozeman made that crystal?’

  ‘Well…Yes,’ Sparks says.

  ‘And your first orders were to deliver Masen here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Heard me issue fresh ones?’

  ‘….No.’

  ‘Let me give you some free advice. I bark ‘em, and you say yes, Sir,’ Mooney moves in close, noses nearly touch, ‘and action…the…order.’

  Sparks nods. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Assistant Director Zane Black is a traitor,’ Masen says. ‘He was behind a honey trap of CIA Supervisor Paul Pascal and he’s just been given the keys to the Barn. We have to stop him.’

  Yes, the bloody Boston mafia, Mooney thinks. Freelancing. It’s lazy when you know how to pull the trigger yourself but get others to do it for you. Scrubbing the toilet, cooking the perfect steak and divorcing your wife are the only responsibilities you should entrust to other people.

  ‘It’s why you were brought here, Dr Masen,’ Mooney says pulling away from Sparks. ‘To protect you from being killed, which is what Zane Black was about to do. You could show some gratitude.’

  ‘Sir, I believe.’ Sparks glances over to Masen. ‘We believe he is planning to steal the data from the Barn and sell it to the Chinese.’

  In the process of standing, Masen rubs his wrists and nods his agreement.

  Mooney looks down at Robertson. ‘If this is true then we don’t have much time.’

  ‘We need to save the two Chinese hackers,’ Sparks says. ‘They might be able to help fill in some missing pieces.’

  Mooney doesn’t care about two Chinese kids, but knows it won’t hurt to keep both distracted while the test is being setup, plus he could do with a plan to slip a noose around Masen’s neck. And this just might yield the rope he’s been looking for.

  The fall Zane talked about.

  ‘Colonel, get up and get Captain Sparks what he needs,’ Mooney orders.

  Robertson takes Masen’s tied hands and stands, wobbles his jaw and pats down his clothes.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Looks at Sparks with scorn.

  ‘Would you?’ Masen says looking down at his wrists.

  ‘My laptop and an internet connection,’ Sparks says and moves over to the bag placed by a table and pulls out his laptop.


  Robertson frees Masen. ‘Follow me,’ he says gesturing to Sparks.

  The pair exit the room.

  Masen pushes into his knees catching his breath. ‘I thought Pascal was a double agent, but he was blackmailed by a woman calling herself Dana or Amanda Lane. I guess he took his own life out of shame. He wrote me a note confessing everything. He suspected the Director of the CIA and Zane Black of being behind the blackmail.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’ Mooney takes out a cell phone and throws it at him. Catching it, Masen looks at the screen. ‘It’s filled with missed calls from you. Nash’s phone—’

  ‘Nash is here?’ Masen asks looking up at Mooney.

  Mooney runs his tongue over his upper teeth. ‘Should have seen this place when the USS Firebolt went out to rescue those two. General Morgan told me the atmosphere was like they were preparing for an invasion of mainland China.’ Shakes his head and exhales loudly. ‘Man the stink that hornet’s nest you boys stirred.’

  Masen doesn’t know to think. ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Soon,’ Mooney says thinking Black never said anything about the Director being involved.

  ‘And Jessica Bradbury?’ Masen says handing back the phone.

  ‘Tough girl, and that Kim fella…he’s something else.’

  Masen still has no idea why he is here, in Japan. Why Bozeman was following him, or why exactly his life is in danger. Masen cracks his neck, stretches his legs and paces the vinyl floor that squeaks when he moves. ‘Pascal was blackmailed to keep me working on North Korea,’ Masen says. ‘Now Black takes control of the Barn. We need to arrest him. We need to stop him.’

  Mooney turns towards the window and folds his arms across his chest. ‘Snake eyes always look after snake eyes. If the Director is a suspect and we move to stop him, we tip off any co-conspirators. No, I have a man stateside. We need to come up with a plan.’ The inference Mooney doesn’t trust him isn’t lost on Masen.

  ‘Amos Bozeman,’ Masen quips. ‘Not really—’

  ‘Fat, lazy, and underestimated,’ Mooney says. ‘But you know, give me one Bozeman over ten spooks any day of the week.’

  ‘You see more in him than I do.’

  ‘Zane Black underestimates the army,’ Mooney says. ‘But Bozeman got you here. Outsmarted a PhD from an Ivy League University, no less.’

  ‘So we’re a team now?’ Masen asks.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Masen catches a glimpse of the tree line mountain range that runs the entire western side of the base. I’m in Japan. Images flash through his mind, of Tokyo at night, of its color, of thousands of people scurrying about, of wriggly writing and the strange sounds of the language, the abruptness how some words terminate. But outside holds no mystery as to wear a label as anything foreign or alien. It looks like home. The mechanically warmed air inside smells American, everyone speaks with an American accent.

  Masen is surprised by the sameness of it all and equally surprised his parents invade his thoughts. They hadn’t even been out of their home state before. What would they make of all of this? Their son in the mystical orient, working for the CIA. And as their memories are brushed off and held up to the light, it didn’t seem so bad: his childhood. The distance of time has preserved his memory, and now older, he sees the experience through the eyes of someone different. As a family they had laughed together, hadn’t they? Never struck him out of malice, never thrust a bag over his head and said it was for his own good. Even Mr Jones had only been protecting his daughter. He threatened, but never physically harmed him over deflowering his daughter. At least he made his intentions clear, never crept around the periphery of friendship only to leap at your throat, attack and restrain you.

  Being alone in this room with Mooney he feels the space is haunted by some malevolent force just inside the shadows, circling him, watching and waiting for the time to show itself. He feels a chill in the small of his back as it rises slowly, tingly his spine.

  ‘You killed someone at Kennedy, why not kill Black?’ Masen asks.

  ‘Again, we might just be chopping off the head. No, we need to dig deeper and find out who’s behind this. You said it yourself, someone was pulling Pascal’s strings, maybe someone’s pulling his.’

  ‘Either way, we need to secure the Barn,’ Masen says.

  Mooney turns and takes a step towards the door. Playing good cop isn’t so bad. He’s even beginning to enjoy it.

  ‘Want to see her?’

  13

  Near Camp 22, 213 miles west of Rason, North Korea

  A lonely figure in military uniform runs towards the train, panting and waving arms frantically in the whitewash of the barren winter landscape. The train driver doesn’t slow as he strains looking for the reason why a person would be out in this weather. Orders are orders, and his are not to stop for anything, or anyone. The loading of the containers at Rason was hampered by an explosion and a power failure, so he’s running late. Cargo of such importance has been entrusted to his care. The driver knows the containers have something to do with the promised great fight against the Americans, so he isn’t going to stop without directly receiving orders from Pyongyang. Certainly not from a mad man out in this weather.

  However, as the train makes a slow turn, the driver understands the man’s urgency: ice on the tracks ahead. Immediately applies the breaks.

  After the train stops the driver gets out and readies himself as a senior officer approaches flanked by three soldiers. Their forms solidify around snow laden wind the closer they get. Loose paper flaps at his side. They stumble standing on the uneven ground. The driver scratches his head. From his calculations the destination is still some distance away. But the train isn’t going anywhere. Not with ice-covered tracks.

  ‘Go,’ the officer yells, waving him back. ‘Back up and go here.’ And points to the piece of paper, angling himself and therefore the paper towards the driver. Arched hands make a visor as the driver moves in close and after a few seconds lowers his gaze to study the map. ‘A secret location,’ he intones. Looks back up the tracks and notices the guards checking under the bogies and in between containers with rifle extended, as if expecting to spot someone hiding. The driver looks back down to the map, drawn by the officer’s presence.

  He strains to take in the detail. Only where the officer’s finger drags to show where the line is. The driver nods his understanding. ‘Go back here.’

  ‘Here, yes,’ the officer says.

  It takes time to orientate himself with the hidden points to a track he’s never travelled on or noticed passing. Quickly calculates the fuel on board to travel back then along the line to where the finger ends—there’s enough, just. He takes the map, once folded by the officer and having pointed rather aggressively so he understands his new orders. The officer looks past and gestures to one of the soldiers to board. The driver is not left wondering what the man’s orders are in case he fails to follow.

  He will have to travel twenty miles back in reverse to change tracks, but going forward is not a possibility. Ahead, ice stretches beyond his view. He doesn’t ask how water got here, simply gets back in the train counting the containers that arch back along the line as he climbs aboard.

  Sixteen.

  14

  Pudong District, Shanghai, China

  ‘You just need time,’ Fāng says continuing the conversation started in the elevator. He’d heard enough of Lì’s conspiracy theory to care to hear anymore, but knows Lì won’t leave the idea of them being watched by a US spy agency alone. He’s banged on about it all day. ‘We’re playing in the big leagues now.’

  They walk past the guardhouse and turn left into a stream of workers leaving for the day, hurrying to Gangcheng Road train station.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Lì says turning sideways looking directly at Fāng, then sniffs—sinuses not used to the air-conditioned environment inside the Yellow Room—looking at the ground searching for diff
erent words. ‘If you only read what he wrote about us…not just some kid.’

  Fāng shoulders Lì to lighten the mood, and mentions looking for the two girls they’d only seen once at work—their first day—in the thickening crowd. ‘I suppose he wants a credit card number…Let it go. It’s probably some,’ shrugs shoulders and rolls eyes, ‘pervert who likes asian boys.’

  Lì turns and stops directly in front of Fāng, grabs his arm.

  ‘What the hell?’ Fāng looks up and down indignantly, ‘calm down.’ Flicks Lì’s hand off and tugs his brown leather jacket with yellow chevron stripes he got last year from his family for his birthday. They are in the middle of the sidewalk, people push past, forcing them closer together. ‘He knows I sat to the right of you at breakfast the morning we started work.’ Fāng looks unfazed by Lì’s words, incensed by his closest friend’s actions. ‘He asked if I was the one who had the two dumplings or the one who ate nothing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He knew the time…’ Lì says pointing up to the sky, inviting Fāng to look up, but Fāng doesn’t, he doesn’t want to give any more oxygen to this ridiculous idea. ‘High-spec optical satellite imagery.’ Stands back. ‘Convinced now?’

  Fāng feigns being stunned and struggling for words.

  ‘A bullet to the back of the head. Possibly an explosion. I’m not risking it…Well?’ Folds arms across his chest.

  Silence.

  ‘Fāng!’

  ‘Let’s play soccer when we get home.’

  One block from the PLA building, Winters and Feldman watch with bowed heads at the screen as Fāng and Lì turn left, then stop inexplicably in the middle of the sidewalk. They appear to argue. The small camera fixed to a traffic light zooms in for a tight focus. After a minute they start walking. ‘They’re going home,’ Feldman says noting the time. ‘Time to pick up supplies.’