Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  He was lost two hours ago.

  A wife, son, and daughter are back in Pyongyang living with his mother in a small apartment that has a leak down one wall that stains the paint, with furnishings only enough for everyone to sit on. If anything happens to the cargo, and blame is squared at him, who knows what horror they’d suffer. He stares ahead looking for a signal, then down to the map where he thinks he is, and says to himself, ‘But the tracks…’ Looks up and stares ahead with a tightening grip on the brakes, the other on the throttle.

  He thinks the tracks aim straight at the mountain, and looks behind seeking realization from the guard.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the train driver asks.

  The guard raises a finger and points straight ahead.

  Finally a sign. It appears between heart beats. Eyes scan its message thoroughly so there is no confusion. Taking it as an order notches up the accelerator to the signed speed. The station is 19 miles ahead, dead ahead. The map verifies the signal position. And unfolding the map completely, sees the detail lost in the light mist and hurried atmosphere a few hours earlier, and understands what that guard meant.

  Inside the mountain.

  26

  Pudong District, Shanghai, China

  Fāng pants clutching his head as he tries grasping the reality of what just happened. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Leans into a brick wall shadowed by an alcove. Lungs struggle to consume the air his body craves. ‘We should be dead.’ Trembling hands push against knees and he chuckles against the absurdity of it all. Underfoot, pieces of broken glass from smashed windows reflect a burning sky.

  There were two explosions: the missile that exploded outside the main entrance which then ruptured an underground gas main resulting in a much larger blast radius than was planned, vastly increasing collateral damage.

  ‘Got to keep moving,’ Lì yells out to Fāng catching up. Places a hand on Fāng’s shoulder and sees the horror at what his friend struggles to comprehend, the same look is on his own face. He was three strides behind as they sped south through a winding labyrinth of side alleys. The mass of people have thinned out. ‘We have to come up with a plan.’

  ‘I saw people on fire,’ Fāng says catching his breath and checks himself for any damage. He finds none. ‘That was meant for us.’

  Lì says nothing.

  The sun is low in the sky, lighting only the tops of buildings, and out there, screams and sirens as emergency personnel race to help the injured.

  Fifteen minutes earlier they had walked out of the train station and made their way past the same karaoke bar they pass everyday on their way to work, and were near the entrance of work when the explosion sent a shockwave through them, as if someone had just punched them hard in the chest. Their ears rang, but they didn’t die. Glass in the surrounding buildings expanded as air surged only to relax and crack under the stress, sending large shards to the ground and scrambling the morning rush of office workers and school children in every direction.

  ‘They know everything,’ Fāng says remembering how Li had explained the American had satellite photos of them eating breakfast. ‘…everything.’

  It feels like they’re late to some grand event, actors in a horror movie where they share the starring role. And as the carnage unfolds, they are scared, cold and alone.

  They had decided to do the right thing and warn the authorities of the attack by going to work earlier; A disruption to their usually predictable routine, and hopefully a step ahead of their attackers. If they could get into the building before any attack they would be safe.

  ‘I may have a plan,’ Lì says hurrying to formulate his idea. They are still close and desperately need to get further away.

  ‘What is it?’ Fāng asks.

  ‘Give me a second.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Fāng says preparing to leave.

  ‘The American embassy,’ Lì says standing straight for more air.

  ‘Asylum?’ Fāng guesses.

  Lì nods and they both continue walking. ‘If we go to the Americans we should be safe.’ He allows the idea to sink in and looks behind. It’s possible they’re being followed. The tunnel of light at the end of the alley shows blurs of people running in both directions.

  ‘This was the Americans,’ Fāng’s says forcibly. He always had a bad feeling about Ms Lane. ‘The police… we should-’

  ‘No!’ Lì yells throwing up his hands. ‘He said Byzantine Candor is being run by double agents. We don’t know who we can trust.’

  ‘Lane,’ Fāng thinks aloud. ‘Okay…okay. If you think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Travis Sparks said it’s better to be in the light,’ Lì says. ‘So we go there and tell them who we are and that we know things.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter we signed papers saying we’d be shot if we disclose any information,’ Fāng says.

  ‘Not surprising given Mr Shaò’s plans for us and the technology the Americans are testing,’ Lì says.

  They continue walking, and after a few minutes the steady stream of emergency vehicles’ sirens starts to fade. They estimate they are four blocks from work. However, the dull sounds of chaos is ever present, a constant backdrop as they walk in the shadows with heads low and hands shoved deep in pockets. Shoes swill in the shallows of dark puddles creating a cacophony of sloshing sounds as legs move out of synch with each other. And they stay close to each other, taking turns looking behind and down thin corridors for the people who want to kill them. Even minor scuffles, random noises associated with such a close knitting of buildings make them twitch and push closer, forming a single unit of stumbling mass.

  ‘At least they think we’re dead,’ Fāng says. Lì nods empathetically thinking of the grotesque amount of death and destruction just for them.

  They find themselves behind a strip of restaurants, at their feet is a grim path, a mix of grease, discarded food scraps and paper. Fāng sees a fish skeleton and kicks it, watches the filleted carcass fly into a bin.

  Soon they start separating, their speed slows as buildings widen out and breathing normalizes. They take a minute to help each other straighten clothes, brush down hair and point out smudges on faces from when they were knocked to the ground. All this nervous energy and walking is making them steam under winter clothing.

  Lì takes of his jacket. ‘We have to orientate ourselves,’ he says looking at his cell phone. No reception. Holds it up. But it’s no use. ‘For the quickest way to the embassy.’ And turns around holding it higher.

  ‘Probably turned off the network,’ Fāng notes, ‘in case of a coordinated attack.’

  ‘That doesn’t help us,’ Lì replies rubbing his forehead trying to think where the embassy might be. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Nope,’ Fāng says fighting with a crumb of glass picked from his hair: then, ‘The girls!’ The thought of the girls being caught up in the blast sends a chill up his spine. He feels responsible somehow. If he didn’t cajole Lì to go to the Internet Café all those months ago they wouldn’t have raised the interest of Lane and Mr Shaò, and they wouldn’t be running for their lives.

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ Lì says. ‘Whoever tried to kill us might still be after us.’ And shakes Fāng, ‘They might still succeed if we don’t keep moving.’

  ‘Shanghai Station,’ Fāng says remembering where the American embassy is.

  ‘Yes,’ Lì says smiling for the first time today.

  Having crossed a narrow passage for a better view of a high wall across the busy road Lì thinks is the US Embassy wall, he nods and squints struggling through a headache (his glasses lost in the explosion) to Fāng. ‘I think that’s it over there,’ he calls out summoning Fāng who moves quickly over and huddles in the doorway only feet back from the steady flow of pedestrians and cars. They arrived tired, sore, hungry and thirsty.

  Back at the first train station they came across there was a sign that read ‘closed until further notice.’ There was lit
tle choice but to walk the entire distance. They continued south following the Huangpu River for two hours, and found that as time passed they no longer felt as tense. Cars weren’t behaving erratically, and they couldn’t remember the last time a siren had made them jump. They played with the idea of catching a taxi to take them through Xiangyin Tunnel so they could go to their apartment and pack a few clothes, grab a bite to eat, but kept walking because as Lì pointed out, whoever it was that tried to kill them might be monitoring the apartment. The American insisted these were professionals. It wasn’t worth the risk. Instead they continued and crossed over the Xinjian Bridge, then walked around Shanghai train station to avoid crowds and the military to where they thought the embassy was located.

  ‘Across the road?’ Fāng says pointing. ‘One fifty, maybe one eighty yards.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The morning sun casts long shadows that rise tall against the brick wall behind. Lì leans forward and cranes his head up and down the alley, and back to the street while Fāng searches for a break in both pedestrian and traffic. His legs tensing.

  ‘Have a look.’ Fāng pushes Lì forward, and after a few seconds Fāng looks pleading to Lì. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘See,’ Lì says pointing, ‘the high wall. Every so often a corner of the American flag flaps into view.’

  Fāng sighs seeing the small wedge of cloth. ‘America.’

  Walking in silence had compounded in them both a sense of heightened awareness that lingers as they figure out what to do next. It had only been a few weeks since finishing their final university exam that they bumped into Ms Lane and Mr Shaò over bowls of noodles. Now feels a lifetime ago. If they can make it, they might never see their families again.

  ‘We should run,’ Fāng says.

  ‘Wait.’ Lì holds out his arm to stop him.

  ‘The building’s probably being monitored,’ Lì says and walks out of the shadow and onto the sidewalk, Fāng close behind. ‘If we sprint you can bet a car or someone will intercept us before we set one foot on American soil. Plus the guard would be nervous right about now…If we both rush him.’

  Fāng weighs up the options, his gaze focused on the building. The guard’s hut and American flag visible, tempting him to make a break for it. A gentle breeze slowly unfurls the flag and plays softly with its edges, the cloth stretches out like welcoming arms and throwing off flowers from a neighboring Cherry Blossom.

  ‘Maybe surveillance has been scaled back,’ Fāng says. ‘Maybe the military has as all available security personnel searching for the people responsible for the attack.’

  Lì rests his hand on Fāng’s shoulder. ‘We do this the smart way. We were smart enough not to die.’

  ‘It was luck we didn’t die back there,’ Fāng says.

  ‘Still, I have an idea.’ The words bite into the short distance of difference between them. Although the words came out his mouth, he isn’t fully committed to them.

  Fāng relaxes and Lì withdraws his hand. ‘So, how and why did the chicken cross the road?’

  ‘Give me a hand.’ Lì retreats back into the alley and retracing their steps to where they earlier passed a homeless man asleep curled up in a ball on a sheet of cardboard. Fāng follows closely behind and slides on a piece of fat nearly tripping him over.

  ‘How’s he going to help?’ Fāng asks righting himself and looking down at the unconscious man.

  ‘He can’t if he’s asleep,’ Lì says and bends down. The stench of ammonia and alcohol sends him to dry reach. With a cautious hand he prods the man, but all he achieves is a slight shift of the man’s legs and a moan.

  ‘Harder,’ Fāng says from a safe distance.

  Lì rocks the man hard with the force of both hands. ‘Wake up. Wake up.’ After several attempts the man’s hands search chaotically for the source of agitation. Suddenly he wakes, sits up and with both hands grabs Lì’s neck. Lì throws his hand backwards to stop his head slamming hard into the ground.

  ‘Get off me.’

  Mad, widened eyes and two rows of battered yellow teeth snarl at him.

  ‘Get him off me,’ Lì yells out looking over his shoulder for Fāng.

  Fāng punches the man’s face, but he doesn’t let go.

  Lì searches for a weapon of any sort and finds a splintered length of wood from a broken box that houses some of the man’s belongings, and frantically swings it. Several well connected blows and the man releases his grip to protect his head. The man crawls away, cowering against the wall.

  A chef in the back of a restaurant hears the scuffle, and being concerned because many of his customers had told him of the attack, tightens his grip on the meat clever that he had just been used to separate a duck’s head from its body, and storms outside.

  ‘What’s going on out here?’ he yells pushing through the door. The blade is dulled by blood, but hangs purposefully and menacing in the air, pointing towards the strange men at the back of his shop. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His nipples look deformed behind his saturated T-shirt, and the black hair on his head looks like trapped spiders under his hair net.

  Quivering for action and keen to chase all three away, bursts towards them with the clever thrashing and slicing the air, yelling some unrecognizable war cry.

  All three scatter down the alley.

  Back in the doorway, Fāng and Lì watch the homeless man cross the road and start walking towards the embassy, picking up speed the closer he gets to the American soldier standing guard outside the hut. Not a jog, but a walk that says he’s in a hurry, on a mission. They are using him as decoy to flush out any hidden Chinese military who would take them before setting foot on American soil.

  ‘It could have been us,’ Fāng says. ‘We could be safe.’

  However, on the other side of the road Lì spots two civilian clad men emerge from the left most corner of his field of vision, walking purposefully towards the homeless man. Their build and similar short haircuts tells him they’re military. ‘He hasn’t made it yet,’ Lì observers. ‘Look out for suspicious cars.’

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ Fāng says. ‘…wait a second, car to the right, one hundred yards.’ A black sedan pulls out and turns right from a side street and hurriedly joins the traffic.

  ‘Got it,’ Lì says studying the black car accelerate towards the homeless man who is only feet away from the American guard. ‘We need to see if there are any others out there,’ Lì adds glancing between the homeless man, car and the two men closing in quickly from behind.

  ‘See them?’ Lì nudges Fāng pointing.

  ‘They stick out don’t they?’ Fāng says watching the men break into a sprint.

  As the homeless man makes a slight left turn towards the American, the car accelerates and turns towards the sidewalk, and screeches to a stop in front of the homeless man. A man dressed in dark clothes jumps out of the front passenger’s door, opens and holds the back door as the two men in pursuit grab the homeless man from behind—he doesn’t struggle, instead looks utterly confused and most agreeable—and throws him in the car. The two men get in and close the door. The car speeds off in plain view of confused pedestrians. The entire action took less than 7 seconds. The guard remains anchored to his spot in front of the hut.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Fāng asks.

  ‘That he’d get a warm bed, food, and possibly a shower before being let go. And not to resist.’

  Fāng tenses, puts both hands against the wall and pushes and says, ‘See you over there?’ And runs out into the traffic. By the time he is weaving through cars that swerve to avoid hitting him, Lì registers what’s happened and quickly pursues. There is no time to analyze the course of action, or to yell out to his friend to stop. His heart pounds as he flies through the wake of stalled traffic, desperately trying to catch up to Fāng. A bus stops inches from Fang, the brakes make a blistering noise as tires pull up the huge metal ramming brick to a shuddering halt. It’s front
grill snarls at Fāng who stops and stares, stunned by the closeness of death.

  ‘Go!’ Lì yells thrusting both hands forward.

  Having witnessed the decoy, two Chinese military men watch for the real asylum seekers. The bombing early this morning at a PLA facility put all services on high alert, including all divisions and branches of defense and domestic police forces. The orders were to round up anyone suspicious, or trying to leave the country. The American, British and Australian embassies were all high probability targets, and had extra personnel assigned to watch them. Lingering on a side street just behind the US Embassy wall, and out of sight from the position in the alley, the casually dressed men sprint along the sidewalk.

  Fāng looks behind at Lì and snaps to the present. Lì is approaching fast and pointing frantically towards the embassy, across the other lane of traffic.

  ‘Right, two men,’ Lì yells spotting the men laying in an intercept course. It’s hard to tell who will arrive first. They can’t see any cars creeping up on them. Thinks, we can do this. Catching up, they continue to watch the two men running for them.

  Fāng looks ahead and raises both hands and yells at the guard, ‘Asylum, we seek political asylum.’

  The guard, an immaculately dressed professional twists his head towards the men running on the sidewalk to his left, then back to Fāng and Lì, ahead and slightly to his right. His job is to maintain security on US soil, not to have any involvement with Chinese sovereignty, one inch forward. The thin line on the ground, a stark contrast as the dividing line between the countries is wide. On the sidewalk he has no jurisdiction, and isn’t allowed to aid any asylum seekers, and behind, the Chinese have to obtain permission to enter.

  ‘Stop!’ One of the Chinese men orders, arms swinging pumping air into lungs. He is faster than his partner. The American guard notices the man pull out a gun, and having already anticipated danger, swings his M4 carbine from around his shoulder. And by the time he clicks off the safety and holds his weapon tight against his chest, he knows there is a small window to make a decision, to react. He has authority to shoot, but only if shot at first, and only if he is on US soil. His highly polished black shoes are all of three quarters of an inch inside.