It takes knocking on the third door to find an empty apartment on the west side of the complex. The cover story of searching for squatters had allowed his authority to go unchallenged as people looked wearily through peep holes and slits of doorway, the door chain providing them false security against a well-prepared shoulder.
Inside the apartment—nice place, high ceilings, minimal furnishings—he checks his watch, which shows he has some time left so opens the fridge and finds beer shoved in a back corner: some European brand he doesn’t recognize or know how to pronounce. He peels open curtains and slides over a small kitchen table chair and sits by the window next to a lamp.
‘Not bad,’ he says assessing the view of the driveway below. He can see over the building and both ends of the lane and out to the intersection the agents will soon be arriving at. The can’s ring is pushed back and the familiar gushing of gas and beer smells erupt. He takes a big swig, sighs and winces as he fingers his bandaged leg, sore from the pace and stairs, places the cold can against his leg for temporary relief. If all goes well, they’ll be arriving soon, and he’ll leave under the fog of panic and melt into the outside chaos, where he will mill about as a concerned member of the public to see if he can make out either agent. Might ask a paramedic to give his leg a once over.
The Porsche weaves cautiously through downtown morning traffic, which only just starts slowing their progress. Rodriguez looks at his watch, conscious to not look at the heaped seat behind in case it’s captured on CCTV. Thinks the approach is unorthodox but Mooney had said Masen was unpredictable, so it is feasible he sometimes took a different way to work. Speed limits are keenly observed, and tiny corrections to the explosives timing mechanism made—secured in his lap at red lights, gives an outlet for nervous energy. Thinks of the girl in his physics class he hooked up with the other night after pizza and beer, and that he’ll never see her again. Goes through the timings in his head: five seconds to exit the car, ten on the timing mechanism to get clear and crouch behind a car or concrete column near the exit. Bomb goes off, wait a few seconds and emerge confused, stunned and get the hell out and clear of the lane.
Coffey thought the safest place wasn’t forcing their way through security and blowing up the building. Rodriguez quite independently came up with similar reasoning, although neither bothered to verbalize the obvious in the silence that now booms as loudly as Coffey’s blood throbbing in his veins under the heat of the blanket.
In the cocoon, his mind drifts to his parents and little sister who wrote to him not so long ago about her plan of coming out to see him. He was looking forward to showing her Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz and riding on a cable car.
‘ETA six minutes,’ Rodriguez says shifting to third gear.
Coffey primes himself for sounds of panic and the cue from his partner. Focuses on the sounds of his breathing. ‘Any sign of Bozeman?’
The car makes a slow left turn then stops suddenly. Rodriguez’s legs clamps the explosives as it propels forward threatening to fall to the floor. A straggling pedestrian too busy eating a pretzel and talking on his cell phone to notice the turning car unexpectedly runs out in front and crosses against a red ‘Do not Walk’ sign.
Idiot.
‘Keep cool,’ Rodriguez says with clenched teeth. ‘Standby.’ A police car on the other side of the road springs to life, lights flash, the siren makes a spurting sound to get the man’s attention, then falls silent. Rodriguez’s heart pounds, unarmed and with an incapacitated partner. ‘It’s not for us,’ he reassures Coffey as he watches the car stop in front of the pedestrian. The window rolls down and an arm signals the police officer wants a word.
Coffey’s heart accelerates, fathoming his compromised position, lying down and completely blind to his environment.
‘We’re good.’ Rodriguez keeps his head focused on the police car, and continues his turn watching as the man bends down, drawn by the policeman’s beckoning finger.
Bozeman leans forward. From his vantage point in the apartment he makes out Masen’s white Porsche as it approaches in front and slightly to the right, still two sets of traffic lights back. He pulls out the mirror from his jacket, polishing it clean with spit and an eager rub of his jacket. Pulls a string from a free-standing lampthe bright bulb hurts his eyes without the diffusion properties of the shade which he tore off. And practices bouncing light around the room, and briefly at the window so as to let the agents see his position. A flash of the car’s lights acknowledges Rodriguez has spotted his position. Thinks, told you there’s nothing subtle about me.
With an eye on the driveway below, Bozeman scans the traffic for cars that look like they might make a turn for the lane and slow them down. A car turning into the driveway would obstruct their run at the gate and they might not get past the guard and make it into the parking lot. They need a few yards clear at the top of the lane to gain enough speed.
‘No aborting mission,’ he says to himself shifting in the chair. ‘Better get this right.’ Then spots a black Toyota Prius turning into the driveway. The guard takes roughly twelve-seconds to check ID and for the gate to fully retract, before the car starts moving and vanishes to the underground parking lot. Another car turns into the driveway, this time it’s a gray Ford sedan. Bozeman calculates ten-seconds. From this distance, and without the aid of binoculars, Bozeman thinks the guard leans his rifle in the guardhouse, not mounted on a gun rack for a quicker draw.
Good.
The Porsche crawls through the second set of lights. The last change to the timing mechanism is made. Rodriguez’s fingers tremble and become sweaty. The metal crown of the wrist watch continuously slips as he makes tiny corrections to the explosive device, wipes his brow and mops stinging salt water from his eyes.
Bozeman puts down the beer can and scans. There is a dark Cadillac two cars up directly in front of the Porsche. It is indicating to turn left. ‘No aborting,’ Bozeman says and flashes the mirror once—the window partially reflects light into his face.
‘We’re on,’ Rodriguez says making out the signal and sees the Cadillac ahead slow and indicating to turn left. Sweaty hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel as he makes the turn. Coffey grunts his response and tenses his muscle for the expected chaos. The car’s indicator feels like it’s right next to his head.
‘Shit!’ Bozeman yells watching the Cadillac turn right at the last minute.
Coffey feels the car turn. His heart races, body ready for a fight, pushes hard into the frame of the car. This is it. But the car slows.
‘Come on. Come on!’ Rodriguez yells, hand ready at the horn for the car ahead who cut in front. The car slows to a crawl to give distance.
‘What’s going on?’ Coffey asks.
Rodriguez has the clutch in, ready to spring the car forward. He watches the dark sedan crawl down the alley, slows then turns for the parking lot. The driver and security guard trade pleasantries.
‘What?’ Coffey says feeling something sharp pinch his side and squirms.
‘Just one of those unexpected, expected cockups we talked about. We’ve got a car ahead,’ Rodriguez says keeping the revs high. ‘I’ve got this. Probably someone’s first day.’ With a quiet mind, he tightens his grip, downs shifts, pushes his foot to the floor and heads for the back of the car. The engine roars. ‘We’re going in. Brace for impact.’
The guard notices Masen’s car driving fast in his peripheral vision as he waves the Cadillac through, then notices the Porsche suddenly accelerate.
Maybe it was the sight of the smoking tires and sound of the engine that made the guard hesitate for that all-important fraction of a second, or the disbelief the car was acting threatening. It had never done so before. But the guard paused in the confusion, and he would be haunted by that failed split second for the rest of his short career.
Before he turns his body and thumps down on the big red button that stands proud in the middle of the instrument panel, closing all access poi
nts to the building, the Porsche had already pushed the Cadillac forward and to the side, and is racing towards the parking lot.
The button triggers all sorts of sirens. Doors start closing, attempting to secure the building against attacks. The guard grabs his M4 carbine and runs out, crouches for an accurate shot and bursts three rounds through the back window of the Porsche where the driver’s head should be. The window explodes, but the car’s momentum keeps it moving forward. Unsure if the driver is wounded, dead, or still in control, his view blocked as the door slams shut, just as the car slips through.
After twelve-seconds, the first armed response pour out of the building, some with machine guns, others carrying small caliber sidearms, all drawn, searching for threats.
The guard turns his attention and weapon at an approaching car that had just turned into the driveway, then back on the Cadillac as it slowly rolls to a stop, the horn blasting. The parking lot doors are shut. For good measure, and to control an unknown quantity the guard turns and shoots three holes into the hood of the stationary car at the top of the driveway, then runs over to attend to the partially conscious Cadillac driver, pulling her free from the wreckage and placing her on the ground. A small army is staging a mounted defensive position, extending out and across both lane entrances, blocking all traffic.
24
Boston, Massachusetts
Earlier, Black went back to his apartment to pick up a suit then came back to the waitresses’ warehouse apartment, ran a hot shower to scrub the mess off. Now ready for his first day in charge of the Barn, makes himself toast and black coffee percolated from a bag of freshly ground organic beans he found in the fridge sealed with a branded sticker of a nearby farmers market.
Crunching on a piece of toast he stands over Befany, takes out his phone and calls for a taxi.
The operator confirms name, address and time.
‘That’s right,’ Black says fixated on her blotching purples and blues. ‘…10 minutes.’
As he waits, pours another cup. Finished, rinses the cup, goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth then calls the Cleaner. And just as he hangs up, the phone rings. It’s Mr Shào.
‘I was only arranging cleaning myself,’ Black says. ‘But hopefully you’re calling about a much larger mess.’
‘The facility is secure,’ Mr Shào reassures Black. ‘It was larger than I anticipated, but we had our engineers make sure the floor wouldn’t be affected.’
‘As long as it proves a sufficient enough distraction, I don’t care how big it was.’ Black walks over to a large window, peels back the curtain and looks down at the street. ‘Are you ready to receive the data and to release the media package?’ Black adds.
‘Yes. Was the last test of the teleportation technology successful? Is the data complete?’
‘I’m on my way to the Barn as we speak. As soon as the last test is complete, I will have it, and soon after that, you will.’
‘We are ready to feed news outlets of the man responsible for the attack,’ Mr Shào says.
‘Not yet,’ Black says. He can’t tell Shào there are questions around Masen’s whereabouts, but the distraction still works. Thinks, one more day. ‘I tell you when.’
‘Technology Square,’ Black says opening the front passenger door of the taxi. ‘Know it?’
The driver puts down a plastic fork and swallows. ‘Yeah.’ A half empty takeaway container of fried rice rests in his lap. Some of it clings to his shirt. ‘Terrible thing what happened in China,’ he adds.
‘And what happened in China?’ Black asks.
‘There was a bombing,’ the man says with a questioning stare. ‘Been nothing but on the news.’
‘Must of missed it,’ Black says raising a hand to chin height. ‘Up to here with work. It’s been murder.’
‘They’re saying it could have been terrorist related. Apparently the building is some high-tech PLA place.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear on the news,’ Black says as he turns away and out the passenger window, straightens tie in the reflection. ‘Take the scenic route. I’m in no hurry.’
‘Your dime mister.’ The driver turns on the meter and pulls out from the curb into the flare of the morning sun.
The cold seat squeaks and pinches a leg. Black allows his mind to drift to a few days time, where he pictures himself on a plane as it takes off from Boston to Germany, then to destinations unknown.
Dime? Soon I’ll not hear that phrase ever again.
A fusion of competing fragrances assaults his nostrils. An air diffuser plugged into the air vent spews out sickly sweet smells, so he angles the vent toward the driver. Normally he would have turned off the air conditioner, but he doesn’t mind, not today. Instead he lowers the window and breathes in the wind that blows chilled over his face. He remembers Lane did the same thing as they drove through the wooded scenery on their way out of the city. No hiding behind the glass wall monitoring the Barn. Today he walks in through the front door, in charge. Maybe Masen won’t be at work.
Masen.
The thought rattles around in his mind, bringing irritation, like sand rubbing in folds of skin that’s hard, if not impossible to wash out. Masen’s car outside the apartment building when he went back, and there were signs of a struggle. He rubs his forehead reconciling Masen’s reputation will be destroyed and him along with it. Linked to the leaking of secrets to the Chinese through an online computer game, the use of the same server where hidden messages the Internet Café owner inserted as Lì and Fāng played, will all come out.
Black hopes to see the look of absolute terror in Masen’s eyes as he’s lead away by security. The connection would be assured by the attack in Shanghai. Everyone will focus their attention away from DUST and allow it to simply slip into his hands. Sure, it’s ramming a garbage truck into a house only to steal the contents of the neighbor’s mailbox, but what does he care? It’s worth a thousand rubbish trucks, a million homes. The satisfaction of keeping all the pieces in play. Today, after the test, all the data will be fed into the Barn’s mainframe and he will allow the Yellow Room steal it. All he has to do is change security protocols, which he has the authority to do.
So what if Mooney has some of the pieces, they couldn’t do a thing in hiding.
The taxi slows and turns into Main Street. Black looks back as the low sun sparkles through the leaves of a large tree, spilling warm light on his face and against a group of joggers, whose colorful clothes and mash of legs follow the taxi around the corner. Soon they match the taxi’s speed. Soon they pass.
Black cranes his head to see. ‘What’s up ahead?’ he asks looking at the slowing traffic. ‘Why is everyone slowing? Why are we…?’
Every lane is blocked, no one is moving. The taxi’s brakes squeak to a stop and the driver sticks his head out of the window, investigating the source of the blockage. Amongst the panic created ahead, there’s a faint sound of sirens.
‘Some sort of—’
‘What is it?’ Black demands and rakes his hair and clenches his jaw. ‘What do you see?’
Traffic lights flash amber and cars scramble in vain to find alternate routes. Minor scuffles between angry drivers break out as bumpers do what they’re supposed to do.
Annoyed and frustrated, the driver turns to Black and splays out both hands and hunches shoulders. ‘Mister, I can’t see a thing.’ And slaps on the outside of his taxi, which is drowned out by a symphony of horn blasts and harsh yells. Overhead a helicopter sweeps low over cars, speeding towards the source of the incident.
Black thinks, this is no accident.
Overhead electrical cables and traffic signals swing wildly from the wind of the helicopters, the driver pulling in his head to escape the worst.
Black calculates his chances of arriving quicker is by foot. Anger grows as more flashing lights join the spectacle and another helicopter circles above. He primes the handle, and sure the traffic isn’t moving any
time soon jumps out and starts running between parked cars. The driver only becomes aware of his lost fare when the passenger is five cars in front and accelerating fast. The back of his jacket buffeting wildly.
A car door opens ahead but Black pushes it close running past. His eyes dart at the scene ahead, desperately trying to make sense. In the pit of his stomach he knows.
‘Masen!’
That grain of sand has rubbed right through skin and now tears at his lungs.
25
Near Camp 22, 175 miles west of Rason, North Korea
The train driver slows to the point of stopping. The overgrown track is lost to snow covered vegetation. Trees and shrubs push in on both sides and smack him in the face as he leans out for a better view.
‘Why have we stopped!’ the guard who has stayed silent for the last 45 minutes asks and stands up.
‘Look,’ the train driver points outside. ‘I can’t to see the track.’
Overhanging branches push down and snow mounds on the track. For miles he has navigated concentrating on the conditions, looking for ice and debris, and on the soldier monitoring their progress, always twitching and trying to see what his hands are doing.
‘Orders are don’t stop,’ the soldier says now standing behind the train driver.
Ahead, the landscape clears to a mountain that rises out of the earth like a bulb, swelling the land around it and casting a long shadow that stretches for miles behind. The tracks become lost to the darkness. He hasn’t been on this line before so progress has been slow through bends, and in parts, laboriously so to the point he starts questioning orders. However, it is has been some time since the train and its special cargo had done anything other than proceed forward; not since he was stopped and given new orders. The map has proven accurate so far. The track is straight as fast as he can tell.
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