‘Fine, but don’t be long,’ Mooney says.
The room has stopped and focuses on the two figures. The Director didn’t say who will be taking over for Pascal, but to keep working on the projects they were assigned before the attack. All of this is highly unusual.
Treagle watches the USB icon spring up on her screen and turns behind. Tanaka leans over and opens the paper tray to make sure there’s enough paper in the printer.
‘What should I do?’ she asks herself.
There aren’t any protocols she can consult, handouts, memos or training to fall back on. She raps her finger lightly over the keys, thinking, was it really John?
She closes her eyes hoping a decision will present itself.
54
Masen and Tagan watch as Bozeman hobbles over to the table where two paramedics are enjoying coffee. One reaches into a pocket and pulls out a squashed packet of cigarettes. Bozeman gestures inviting himself to join. They make room and after a brief introduction both look back to their ambulance and laugh.
‘You could leave,’ Masen says. He’s been trying to figure out why Tagan’s involved other than helping Coffey. Forcibly he suspects although neither has said a word. ‘Just walk away. It’s not like he’s going to chase you.’
No matter how much Masen thinks the idea of going back to the Barn in a stolen ambulance is ludicrous, he doesn’t have an alternate plan. He turns on the radio and searches for any news about him.
The paramedics watch Bozeman take out a gun and place it on the table—not concealed under an arm or palm so as to not alert the half dozen or so diners seated on other tables, but in plain view—as casually as you would take out a deck of cards from your pocket on poker night. The men look at each other, trying to gauge what the other is thinking. One man laughs to test the situation but stops once Bozeman picks up the gun and points it at the man with a cup of coffee pressed against his lips.
‘He risked his life to save someone,’ Tagan notes as if it’s a conclusion of a thought process started much earlier. ‘Dragged a man out of the building with some woman he eventually let go, unharmed. Same for the driver.’
An ad for car insurance comes on the radio.
Masen turns to another station only to find a bookie talking about narrowing odds on the next Red’s game.
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Masen says.
Tegan says nothing.
Bozeman checks over his shoulder and gives them a thumbs up. Masen and Tagan take it as their cue to get into the ambulance.
Bozeman leads the men behind the back of the diner.
‘Hold up,’ Masen says as a commentator on the radio references Technology Square. ‘I want to hear this.’
Tegan stops with one leg out the car door.
A talk show host is interviewing what Masen makes out by a leading question to be an expert. Talk of treason, domestic terrorism charges and whether the death penalty applies. The expert starts answering but Masen doesn’t want to listen for the answer.
‘Okay, I’ve heard enough,’ Masen says turning off the radio.
‘They’ll identify the driver as not you,’ Tagan says.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Masen says as they walk over to the ambulance. ‘Someone hacked my access code to send data to a Chinese PLA computer espionage unit in Shanghai and somehow faked data to show I’ve sold secrets. The Chinese leaked it to the press.’
Masen notices the years stacked up on the nape of Tagan’s neck. Thick tanned skin, polished as if the constant pulling the stethoscope from around his neck and back again had done to his neck what shoeshine polishers do to leather shoes. Thin gray hairs stick out from underneath his collar. His occupation and the coolness to which he handles himself start making sense. He’s about Bozeman’s age. Maybe there’s a connection with men of a certain age: divorce, regret, midlife crisis.
Tagan shuffles in the front passenger seat of the ambulance while Masen goes round the back, careful no one sees his face in case he is identified and their situation immediately becomes more complicated than it already is. He realizes he’s attached himself to people he shouldn’t. One person isn’t decided what team he’s on, the other, what? A hostage with Stockholm Syndrome who could decide to make off and alert the authorities.
‘I just told him he could leave,’ Masen intones sitting down.
Bozeman emerges from the back of the building after a few minutes clutching a bundle of clothes.
‘Well, whatever the reason you’re staying,’ Masen says extending a hand through the divide to the driver’s compartment which Tagan twists taking. ‘Thanks.’
They shake hands.
‘Sure.’
Maybe Tagan is some kind of emotional walking stick Bozeman has latched himself to. And looking at the way Bozeman sways walking over, it needn’t be metaphorical. Not peas in a pod, not chalk and cheese.
Looking over his shoulder at the diner for any witnesses, Bozeman opens the driver’s door and hurls the bundle in Tagan’s lap. He made sure the men were tied up securely to a tree and gagged, then concealed with branches and hidden behind a log seat. But all it takes is a kitchen hand taking out the trash or going for a smoke and they’ll be discovered.
Bozeman has a hard time heaving himself into the Ambulance. It rocks. ‘Think mine will be a tight fit,’ he says. ‘The boys will be tied up for a bit.’ And looks over at Tagan as the engine starts. ‘Nothing too rough, I promise.’
‘What did you say to them?’ Tagan asks.
‘Only that I liked their ride and that I’ll be taking it.’
Tagan passes the clothes through the opening to Masen.
Masen grabs the bundle and turns it over in his hands trying to make sense of the knot. ‘Not sure how these will get us in to the building.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Bozeman says inspecting the console of the ambulance, fingers skimming the tops of dials and buttons, searching for something to snack on. It reminds Masen of the vet’s fingers back at Maloney’s Bar & Grill—the first time he met Bozeman—trying to catch a gherkin in a jar. It’s the same level of concentration that now washes over Bozeman’s face, the same intense tongue movements.
‘Worked out which side you’re on yet?’ Masen asks pulling up trousers. ‘Or being counterintelligence do you have to have a foot on both sides of the fence? Only want to know if you’re going to turn on me at the last second.’
Bozeman says nothing.
Meanwhile Masen has the beginnings of the physical appearance of a paramedic. He finishes lacing boots as they pull up at a red light. A little loose, he thinks wobbling toes and tests for give and sits up and catches a glimpse of himself in a reflection of a monitor.
Not bad.
‘Turn on the radio,’ Masen says. ‘…Try and find something could you?’
‘Right’o,’ Bozeman says searching the channels for news. ‘Not sure what’s it’s going to accomplish?’
‘Not about me. We might pick up something we can use,’ Masen replies. ‘How about I drive?’ His hands are clammy and his brow starts to sweat. ‘Pull over so you can get changed in the back.’ Somehow the uniform acts as a starting gun. Now he feels he is the game, that there is no turning back. The race had already begun back in Sasebo, and maybe before that: the fight in his apartment. Many things can go wrong. Many things have gone right, also. Surviving the teleport is one.
‘No, I’ll drive,’ Tagan says. ‘You stand a better chance.’
‘Good man,’ Bozeman says through a limp cigarette ready to be lit. ‘Thought you were eager to get out?’
Something in his voice reveals Bozeman knew Tagan would go the distance. Something in Tagan’s voice earlier told Masen a similar story.
‘You’re not are you?’ Tagan asks looking at the cigarette. ‘In here?’
‘Look I’m going back.’ Holds the glow of the lighter in his gaze. ‘Last time I saw Rodriguez he was a bag of meat…so I’m going to have this s
moke. If you have to, make a complaint to your union representative.’
There’s silence as Bozeman searches for a place to pullover.
A small amount of accelerant in a small plastic container—a small pop, he thinks. ‘Bang.’ Makes out a small explosion with his fingers. He knows the devastation of an enclosed explosion, pressure nowhere to dissipate condenses and amplifies making what a small pop is in the open, a beast contained. And what caused Coffey to hate him was a training accident years earlier. A friend fell holding a small charge during a live firing exercise at The Farm. Tripped on a stick and wedged his hand between two rocks. When the charge blew it took off his hand. Bozeman was in charge, and Coffey blames Bozeman and never forgave him. Bozeman has never forgiven himself.
Bozeman inhales deeply, taking the smoke deep into his lungs and slaps the steering wheel as it pulls up on the side of a suburban road. A road sign to Boston proper visible over an intersection. ‘We have another team member.’
Masen manages a smile. ‘So, about my question?’
‘Thought I just answered it.’
Moaning and random knocking and thudding comes in sudden bursts from the back of the ambulance. Masen now up front, looks puzzling to Tagan. ‘Maybe five minutes,’ Tagan says.
Both lean towards the back to learn the finer details of Bozeman’s plan, but all they hear is swearing about the size of the pants and shirt.
Masen tenses. ‘You do have a plan beyond stealing an ambulance and driving to the Barn?’
‘…Sorry,’ Bozeman strains. ‘Busting for one…’ And tugs several times at the zip that finally gives.
From the passing scenery and position of the sun, Masen knows they’ll be approaching from the south, which is good. It gives them more options. From what he can stitch together from various news reports, the surrounding area is slowly opening up to traffic, but Technology Square is still in lockdown.
‘At least we’re moving forward. That’s a good start, right?’ Bozeman’s tone is desperately hopeful, and desperate and hopeful. ‘Those self-help tapes are always exuding with virtues of moving forward.’
Masen shakes his head looking out to traffic. ‘We’re headed towards a recently bombed CIA building with absolutely no plan, and you’re telling us it’s good the wheels on the bus go round and round.’
Treagle slowly takes her hands off the keyboard. They feel heavy with a burden she is not in control and resigns herself to a decision that isn’t hers.
A siren screams.
‘What’s that?’ Mooney yells looking around the room for the reason why an alarm just went off, sees everyone’s surprised apart from the blond.
‘What have you done?’ He points a finger.
‘Ah,’ she screams and winces, protecting and covering face with both hands. ‘Nothing, I did nothing.’
‘What does it mean?’ he asks looking back at Tanaka. Spit erupting from his mouth.
Tanaka throws up both hands and looks at Mooney then down at his monitor. ‘…The network detected unauthorized access.’
‘In plain English, what does it mean?’ Mooney smashes a fist into one of Sparks’s monitors behind, sending it crashing to the ground. ‘Turn that thing off?’
‘Turning it off.’ Tanaka types instructions. The siren falls silent. ‘It’s nothing bad, nothing got through, we can proceed once the delay mechanism resets itself.’
‘Delay mechanism!’ Mooney storms up to Tanaka and pulls out his gun and holds it against his head. ‘The data,’ pulls back the action, ‘now.’ Looks to Nash. ‘Get me into the system,’ pushes the gun hard into Tanaka’s head, ‘or people start dying.’ Pushes Tanaka and his chair into the back wall behind.
‘Okay,’ Nash replies and awkwardly leans into the keyboard. Tanaka doesn’t move, only his eyes follow Nash. He swallows and feels a knot in his throat.
‘It’s no use,’ Tanaka says. ‘It’s locked for thirty minutes.’
‘People start dying in ten, so I suggest you help the professor get my data sooner.’ Then marches over to Treagle.
‘Why did you do that?’ There’s a tremor in his voice, a dangerous mix of anger and frustration.
Treagle bites down on a strand of strength. ‘As you said, we’ve been attacked from the outside and within. Why should it stop with the bombing?’ Her bottom lip is quivering, eyes accusing him, which he reads as a challenge.
Mooney runs a hand across her desk clearing it. ‘Blondie goes first.’
Black paces the window like a wild animal trapped in a zoo and puts a hand to the glass. It fogs as he watches Mooney reach for his gun.
‘Not yet,’ he says. Fights the urge to surge forward, to use the element of surprise. But he has to wait for the right time. Tired, his arm dead against his side. The breath marks the glass where his mouth and nostrils drain and inflate strained lungs.
‘Not yet.’
Bozeman stumbles trying to pull up pants that don’t fit. Lets them bunch at this feet and says to Masen sitting up front, ‘You have to finish this.’ Then to Tagan: ‘We have to create a distraction.’ To which Tagan rolls his eyes and points limply to the lights and siren switches.
‘You believe me now?’ Masen points for Tagan to take the right off Portland. This will bring them directly opposite Technology Square and give them options in case other streets are closed than what the radio reports.
‘Lets just say I recognize the same resolve on your face as Coffey and Rodriguez,’ Bozeman says. ‘They did their job despite the risks. I owe them both to help finish what they started.’
Masen thinks about the CIA/army power play. Certain elements within the CIA and army had a falling out. Maybe splitting the money in the end proved too difficult so they fought for control. Both have made their move, only Masen had gotten in the way and messed up the plan by not dying.
‘Mooney or Black wouldn’t have the technology all to themselves,’ Masen thinks aloud, ‘as long as Nash and…’
‘What’s that?’ Bozeman asks looking through the divide. ‘You said something about Mooney and Black.’
‘That’s why Nash has to die,’ Masen says staring at the passing scenery. ‘…and me.’
‘Tagan!’ Bozeman yells.
‘Give me that,’ Mooney orders.
Treagle pulls out the USB and hands it over. Mooney picks it up turning it over in his free hand. ‘What’s on it?’
‘A file.’
Shakes it in front of her face. ‘Think I’m a stupid old man? Tell me what you did.’
The gun presses against her head. She cowers, shaking into her seat. ‘I don’t know.’ He throws it at her.
‘John told me to copy whatever’s on it to the DUST folder.’
‘John who?’ He searches the room. His face a cherry red shade of anger. ‘Which one of you is John?’
Grips her head, quivering an answer. ‘Masen, John Masen.’
‘Bullshit, Masen’s dead, you’re lying.’
She feels his breath rush over her face.
‘He called earlier, I promise,’ she starts crying. Her voice reduced to a simmering babble of tears, sniffles and shrieks. ‘Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.’ Her body shakes as she looks up at fury plastered thick as icing on his face. ‘He told me…’
‘Go on…’
‘… He said you were coming here to take the data.’
The realization hits hard, as if the ground had been ripped open right under his feet, that if he looked down he would fall into a bottomless black hole.
‘Nash, did Sparks somehow get those three through without us knowing?’
Nash keeps his face down as long as it takes the news to sink in and to wash the smile from his face. Sparks did it, Nash thinks. Masen must have subdued the soldiers somehow and made it look like the test failed. Allows the feeling of relief to swell up inside before answering.
‘It’s possible Sparks tweaked the parameters just right for it to work,’ N
ash says.
‘Either way it doesn’t matter,’ Mooney says. ‘Masen is a terrorist. Even if he did survive, he’ll hang.’
55
‘Punch through,’ Bozeman yells. ‘Drive it like you stole it.’ They’re speeding through parting traffic one block from Technology Square. Both Masen and Tagan see the reason for Bozeman’s excitement. Up ahead a barricade blocks the entrance to Portland, curled barbed wire visible with armed guards manning the entrance, and police busy diverting traffic left and right along Main.
‘We did,’ Tagan notes.
‘They won’t let us through,’ Masen says pointing and almost reaches over out to take the wheel. ‘Turn left.’
‘You have to clear the distance between the outer barrier and the building,’ Bozeman warns.
They cross the intersection. The same route Coffey and Rodriguez took earlier, only now cars pull over. It hadn’t been that way for the agents. Poor buggers didn’t have enough time to prepare. Bozeman leans forward trying to find the apartment where he provided a look out, but the angle isn’t right and he can only make out the middle section of the building and goes back to what he was doing.
Bozeman raids cupboards and storage areas for bandages, IV lines, scissors and tape while Masen searches the glove box and picks up a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and puts them on in an attempt to disguise his appearance. Pats down his hair.
‘What if the stolen ambulance has been radioed through?’ Tagan asks.
‘Then we’re stuffed,’ Bozeman says. Then to Masen: ‘Here.’ Hands him his gun through the divide. ‘Tuck it into the small of your back. Safety’s off. Good luck.’
Masen doesn’t question. There isn’t time. He takes the gun and tucks it under his shirt.
The ambulance makes a sudden left turn. ‘Brace yourselves.’ Tagan plants his foot on the accelerator.
Outside, a guard offers a cursory glance at the ambulance—there has been many—as it speeds and weaves through traffic, and is about to look away when out of the corner of his eye sees it turn suddenly towards him. ‘Look out,’ he yells to the other men and starts raising his rifle but jumps clear just in time to see the wire being dragged along the road.
Iris Rising Page 30
