My Name is Mark Nine
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
My Name is Mark Nine
Copyright © David Kutai Weiss 2013
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”
― George Orwell, 1984
Prologue
My name is Mark Nine. If you are reading this, it is already too late.
Chapter 1
My name is Mark Nine. I have an unusual last name and I wish I could tell you its origin, but my family’s heritage is unknown to me. Right now I have more important things to worry about than my family heritage. Such as the sensation of déjà vu which I’m feeling strongly right now, or the fact that I woke up in Tokyo, but I don’t know how I got here. It’s unnerving, especially given what I’m carrying in my briefcase. But I know that feeling is illogical, impossible; I am a model employee. I always come to work on time. I’m polite, productive, and I never mix work with personal life. Most importantly I have never leaked Company documents. Until now. I juggle my briefcase to my left hand as I wipe my right palm on my slacks and keep walking through the busy Tokyo street. My pace is perfectly calculated and steady despite the feeling that my knees are going to give way any moment. I usually never perspire this much.
Is he still there? My handler told me don’t bring a tail. I slowly look behind me in what I consider to be a sneaky gesture. Yeah, he’s still there alright. 32.5 meters away, and matching my velocity too: 1.8 meters per second; I’m moving along at a pretty good chug. The man following me is dressed in all black except for his boots, which are the only reason I noticed him in the first place. They are practically knee-high with bright orange and white stripes. Is this clown really my tail? Part of me is offended that the Authorities have such a low opinion of me to have this guy tail me. I don’t take too much offense though; I’m mostly scared shitless as I come to terms with the fact that I have a tail at all, orange striped boots or not. There is something familiar about those boots, as if I have seen them before, but I can’t place where.
I turn my head and glance behind me again. My handler explicitly told me not to do this: you never want to let your tail know that you know that you have a tail. But I can’t help but notice the people behind me. Or lack thereof. But when I face forward, the sidewalks are crowded with people. So why is no one behind me? Is this a coincidence? Have I been discovered by the Authorities? I’m not dangerous, I’m just a banker. My briefcase is full of bank documents, not bombs. I subtly observe the other pedestrians’ movements as we walk past each other. Moments after I pass them they turn and walk into one of the shops. Nope, definitely not a coincidence. I wipe my sweaty right palm on my slacks again and continue my nervous march forward.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Why did my handler choose this street to do the drop? There are so many people around. But I guess that’s the reason. Try and blend in to the crowd, my handler told me. That’s not easy for me to do though; I sit behind a desk all day. I’m not accustomed to being around this many people. I do numbers. The crowd disappearing behind me isn’t helping my confidence any, either.
I keep my head down and take in a deep breath, the strike of my shoes hitting the ground is drowned out by the multitudes of people in front of me shuffling about their business. I breathe in the sweltering air: its 28.4 degrees Celsius. And here I am in a full suit. It’s stifling. I much prefer the cold to heat. I’m one of those people who never gets cold. In fact, I perform better in the cold.
It’s so warm here; everyone is wearing T-shirts. I reprimand myself: I’m trying to blend in, not stand out. Maybe a full suit wasn’t the best idea, but it’s not the kind of thing that I think about. I mean, I’m just a banker.
I should stop and just turn around. It isn’t worth the risk. Why do I keep moving forward? I already have a tail. I try to recall if my handler gave me any instructions in the event that I detect a tail, but the gears in my head are turning too fast to make out anything coherent. The stress must be getting to me. I’m just a banker. I nearly collide with two other people, each coming from opposite directions, but one swiftly sidesteps out of my way and the triple-pronged collision is averted. I shoot a glance up at the person who stepped out of the way. It’s an android carrying cleaning supplies. Artificial intelligence has been making some scary advancements in recent years; they make androids that can think now. Of course, they are still required by law to be programmed to get out of any human’s way. I freeze and turn around. That android. I’ve seen her before; I know that sidestep movement. The stress must be getting to me. I tighten my grip on the briefcase.
If you were to ask me why I’m leaking my Company’s documents, I honestly can’t say. I’m just a banker. I do numbers. That’s my thing: numbers. Truthfully, I’ve always been socially awkward, but give me a database of numbers and I’m at peace. My Boss always jokes that I’m the walking calculator. So why am I risking it all? Even now, I don’t know; I just woke up with the urge to do it. I also just woke up in Tokyo, so something isn’t right. Maybe I’m bored, looking for some excitement. Working at the bank isn’t all that electrifying, but I have no desire for excitement. I’m content at the bank. I like my Boss. I like my coworkers. Well, at least the ones that aren’t androids; they tend to be a bit dull.
I look up and curse. There is a camera right in my face. I sharply avert my gaze and keep walking. Cameras are everywhere, always. You can’t escape them. Their presence normally doesn’t bother me except I don’t want to be caught on camera now with this briefcase full of classified bank documents. If one of the cameras chooses to do a retina scan I could be in serious trouble. And yes, I said if the camera chooses. Artificial intelligence is getting scary these days.
There it is: the meeting place. My handler told me to meet him at The Pearl restaurant and bar. The caption under the large sign reads fine dining for seafood lovers. Are we eating here? I don’t touch alcohol, and I don’t foresee myself developing an appetite. Most importantly, I don’t remember ever learning how to read Japanese.
Is it normal to do this kind of thing in a restaurant? I’ve always imagined that this type of transaction occurs in dimly lit rooms with large scowling men who are well accustomed to the icy feeling of brass knuckles ornamenting their hands. My train of thought is interrupted when I nearly collide with a mother in a red dress wheeling a child in a stroller. I quickly step out of their way and mumble an apology. I need to watch where I’m going. I remember that dress. I switch the briefcase into my other hand; my right hand is slick with sweat, a constant reminder of the oppressive heat of summer in Tokyo. Or maybe it’s just nerves. What if there are guys with brass knuckles at the meeting? I’m just a banker. I do numbers.
Another camera in my face. Great. I pray to whatever god is listening that it doesn’t conduct a retina scan. I like my job at the bank. The bank is comfortable. Why am I risking it all? What am I even getting out of this? It’s not like I need the money. I should just turn around right now and forget the whole thing. But my legs don’t obey my brain: they obstinately drag me to The Pearl.
I guess at this point it’s a little late to be having second thoughts. I reach the entrance to The Pearl and grab the door handle with my right hand. I try to turn the handle and push the door open. Except it doesn’t budge; my wrist doesn’t turn. Is the door locked? It’s 12:16 PM, 32 seconds
elapsed time. The Pearl should be open. I try to remove my hand, but it’s as if it is magnetically bound to the handle: I can’t move it even a fraction of a millimeter. What the heck? Did I pull a nerve? This has got to be the worst timing ever. I turn my head slightly to look behind me as I stand there awkwardly, my right hand glued to the door handle. The crowd swarms around me like bees in a hive, oblivious to my plight. Except for the man in the orange and white striped boots. He is jogging straight at me now, his bloated belly bouncing up and down to match his ungainly strides. I hear yelling behind me. The Authorities. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I desperately try to turn the handle, applying as much force as I can. But my limp hand isn’t responding, and the handle won’t turn. That’s when everything goes dark.