Chapter Five tells of her collecting herself and heading back to Jerusalem.
Thomas finds what he needs in the Gospel of Mary and the Cloth 1:15.
Mary spoke, “o why did he choose these fishermen, who bravely threw themselves at words but ran from swords?”
It’s the next morning and Thomas is on the phone with his Kanadian attorney.
“Tell them we’ll-uh take a million dollars and not-uh penny less.”
Thomas used Mary’s words to browbeat the Board into submission.
“Forget about-uh swords, you wimps can’t even stand up to-uh words.”
After a short debate, he got the resolution he was looking for. The motion was made by Dennis Krutz, and seconded by Franz Muller. The motion carried unanimously.
It gave him the authority to do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Chapter 9:
Somewhere, Who Knows Where
Andron’s first reliable memory is being strung up by his hands from a hook on the ceiling. The floor is cold concrete and there’s a large metal drain in the middle to wash piss and shit down.
It’s between washings.
His orange shirt is dirty. He’s naked from the waist down.
He has a few memories of the cargo plane. He knows that he’s in the tropics. He guesses Cubana. There were days of taped interviews. He has no idea what he told them.
Hector’s there, too, in civilian clothes. Andron doesn’t recognize the others in military garb. He thinks it’s been a day.
They have been feeding him by bending him over a table, shoving a tube up his ass and forcing in food. It hurts, but less than being strung up by ropes.
They won’t let him sleep.
Hector and the others are laughing.
“I can see why you’re not married counselor. That’s the littlest dick I’ve ever seen.”
Andron tries to push his legs together to cover himself, but his legs are too weak from standing.
“Come on counselor give us a name, give us something. Let’s end this and let you down so you can get some sleep and we can all go home.”
“I don’t know.”
“The Safroni family, asshole. Which one helped you?”
Andron’s confused. The name’s familiar but he’s not sure why.
“Come on, counselor,” Hectors throws a bucket of freezing water in Andron’s face, “concentrate…a name.”
Hector’s eyes are black as coal.
“I haven’t seen anyone since the funeral.”
The icy water burns and freezes his face at the same time. Andron tries to lick the water on his face to moisten his parched swollen tongue.
“Counselor, this is the way it’s going to go down. You give me a name or I’m bringing in the ladies to laugh at your junk, too.”
“I don’t know who.”
Andron tried to say it with more conviction but his voice is weak and his jaw numb from the ice water.
“I gave you a fucking choice.”
Hector walks out and returns with some females in military fatigues. They stand near the doorway in a group. A few are holding their nose.
“What did I tell you, girls, ain’t he one pencil-dicked pencil pusher with lopsided balls?”
They giggle.
Tears run down Andron’s unshaven face. His nose is running too. He looks down at himself. He can see his pot belly sticking out. He hasn’t lost much weight on anal infusion feeding. His penis never looked smaller. He can see his skinny legs and knobby knees. He struggles to stand, but is too weak. His ugly feet are covered in piss and shit. The dried shit on the back of his leg from his last bowel movement burns.
But he’s a child of God.
He has no idea where the thought came from or if it was his own. Andron doesn’t much believe in God.
He looks back at them. He’s swinging back and forth, trying to stand. He wants to ask them if this how they would like to see their brother or their father.
“I am a ch…”
Andron’s too weak to get any other words out.
The next day he’s screaming.
“Why is he looking at me like that?”
Andron’s terrified of a man with long hair, a beard and a robe staring at him. Andron’s mouth is foaming.
“Who are you talking about, Andron? Come on, give us a name. We can make him go away.”
“The slain god,” Andron says with spit and snot.
The next day they are speaking to him in a different language.
Andron can’t form words, no matter how hard he tries.
They take the ropes off and hose him down. They help him into a fresh orange jumpsuit and take him back to his cell.
He sleeps for more than a day.
They wake him and let him shave, shower and brush his teeth.
His eyes look dead. There are dark circles under them. His head is shaved. His scalp looks blotchy. His wrists are purple. He’s given jeans, a white tee, underwear, socks and tennis shoes to put on.
They take him to a mess hall. He isn’t shackled.
The smell of porridge, toast, fried bacon and eggs drives into his brain.
They sit him at a table across from a middle-aged man in an expensive light brown suit, white shirt and purple tie. The man has thinning hair, thin lips, a pointy nose and penetrating eyes. He’s eating breakfast.
“Sit down, Mr. Varga.”
The soldiers escorting him put their hands on Andron’s shoulders and force him down.
“Good morning, Mr. Varga.”
“Good morning.”
A breakfast plate is put in front of Andron. Bacon, eggs, hash and toast. He’s given a bowl of porridge too. Andron cuts off a piece of egg with his plastic fork and shovels it into his mouth.
“They usually say it’s the best food they’ve ever tasted.”
“I have to agree,” Andron says between mouthfuls, “up to now, the food’s been pretty shitty around here.”
“There’s the sense of humor I’ve been hearing about.”
Andron reaches for the plastic catsup bottle. He notes the switch from ketchup to catsup. Kanadian to Amerigon. He squeezes lots of catsup-ketchup onto his hash.
“Mr. Varga, I’m Major Dowell. I wish to apologize for the treatment you’ve received. We were ordered to use enhanced interrogation techniques if you refused to cooperate. You left us no choice.”
Andron doesn’t answer. He’s nearly done his hash and eying his porridge. While Andron shovels down his meal, he watches Major Dowell use his knife and fork to cut up his food into small pieces and push them into a tidy pile before lifting his fork to his mouth. He chews with his mouth closed and dabs the corners of his lips with with his white napkin.
“Mr. Varga, I was hoping we could have a civil conversation about this.”
Andron wishes they gave him some coffee.
“We have your computers and we know everything that went on that night. We know you are not capable of doing this alone. Do you mind if I call you Andron?”
“No.”
“So Andron, why don’t you just tell me what happened on March first of this year.”
“Not much to say really. I got home around seven, watched some TV, had a few nightcaps and went to bed. Pretty much the same thing I do every night. The only thing I can think of out the ordinary is that I downloaded some kind of program aimed at searching for extraterrestrial life. I woke up later that night and noticed the power was off. The next day I found out it was because of a cyber attack. I had no idea that my computer was responsible, until your men kidnapped me.”
“Interesting. Can you please tell me the name of the website visited to look for aliens?”
“It had an acronym…ILEAP, or something.”
Major Dowell pushes another neat pile of hash and catsup-ketchup onto his fork, eats it and dabs the corners of his mouth. He takes a sip of his specialty tea and continues.
“Our investigation revealed a few things about your Internet activities
that evening Andron. For instance, you spent quite a bit of time at website with the catchy domain name, let me think, oh yes, Persian pussy dot org. I don’t recall you mentioning anything about that. Perhaps this is how you linked up with your terrorist pals after you were done beating off to Persian pussy and other such smut.”
Andron’s face reddens.
“I didn’t speak or chat with anyone and didn’t think I was breaking any laws.”
“Oh don’t worry, Andron, we don’t intend to embarrass you publicly with your pornographic proclivities. But, I do find one thing very interesting about what you’ve just told me. We were able to view the entire log of your Internet activities that evening, and we found no indication that you ventured to some alien life search site from the Persian pussy porn you were whacking off to.”
“I’m pretty sure I did.”
“Looking for Asteroid Astrid’s family were you?”
Andron flinches slightly. That’s what the papers called her.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Nevertheless, she was your girlfriend at the time, no? Some witnesses say that you had just proposed to her and she literally threw the ring back in your face.”
Major Dowell makes a throwing motion at Andron.
Andron stays still.
“That must have made you happy?”
Andron says nothing.
“To see that bitch get what she deserved, am I right?”
Andron grabs the catsup-ketchup bottle.
“Fuck you.”
And squirts as much of it as he can on Major Dowell’s fancy suit before the guards stop him.
Major Dowell shoots up. He has catsup-ketchup splatter all over the front of his new suit, tie and white shit.
“Stick this asshole in the box.”
He barely fits.
They actually have a small, medium and large box. They jam him in the medium one, even though he’s a size large in torture boxes.
They slam the lid down and lock him in.
His curled knees are driven into the sides, as is his back. The top presses hard on his head.
There will be damage.
He needs something to make the suffering easier. He finds it helpful to think of people who have endured worse. He comes up with the idea that he’s a Jew in cargo box escaping a death camp. Move and they’ll kill you. And her.
He goes into the memories.
He imagines in as much detail as he can, the Major walking back to his quarters with catsup-ketchup all over his new suit, eying down any of his men who might be looking at it. Thinks of the same men laughing behind the Major’s back. He imagines the Major having to change out of his catsup-ketchup clothes. Maybe he has a shower, too.
He thinks about that time at the lake with Dylan and Bruce. The former high school buddies are drinking. All day, Bruce was telling them how he found Yeshua. How he’d been saved. How they should be reading the Bible so they might find salvation, too. Bruce takes them out on his fishing boat with a new motor he’s stolen. The reborn Christosian swears like a sailor trying to get the stolen motor started. He pulls the starter rope so hard that the engine falls off and drops into the cold, northern lake. After Bruce stops swearing and only the quiet of the lake remains, Dylan says,
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Now it’s time. He’s been saving these. In case of an emergency, break the glass.
His knees are crushed. His shoulders hurt like crazy. There’s no option to move. Shifting to relieve pain in one area, causes it in another. He smells his body odor, urine and pine.
Pain comes in from everywhere. He knows that it will not get so bad that he’ll pass out. They don’t want that.
What was the make of that blender again? Come on, man, think. Don’t look down at her. Nope, can’t look down. Don’t listen either. The blender.
The curly hair and jean jacket. The clef tattoo. Hands across the guitar strings. Schoolboy. The small of her back. The red finger marks on her hips. The smell of mountain flowers, rare spices and the sea.
Their constellation.
When they open the box. Andron’s in a daze.
“Is it time for my waterboarding already?”
They carry him back to his cell. His legs won’t straighten.
His prison door slit slides open late that evening. Electric light enters his dark cell.
Mr. Varga?
Mr. Varga?
“Present.”
Andron’s sitting on the corner of his bed, rubbing his knees.
Mr. Varga, you don’t know me. I just wanted you to know that we’re all not animals around here. We’re still laughing about what you did to the Major. I know you think it’s another bullshit game, but there’s a rumor that you’re getting out soon. Anyway, Mr. Varga, we think you’re a stand-up guy, whatever you did. So we thought you might like this. It sure was tough to find.
Andron rubs his knees and tightens up to prepare for whatever horror might be coming.
The unknown guard holds up his smartphone up to the prison door slit and presses play. Sing Nightingale Sing fills Andron’s small, dark prison cell. He must have been singing it in the box, though he can’t remember.
Sing, nightingale, sing, a song from ancient times.
Sing nightingale sing, stirring my tired heart.
Sing nightingale singing of a thousand felicities.
Sing, nightingale, sing, sing the pain of love.
Sing, nightingale, sing.
Representatives from the Kanadian embassy join him on the cargo plane trip to the mainland.
“They want to meet you at their lawyer’s offices in San Fresco before we’re cleared to head back.”
The thin young man named James Sorski wears a blue suit and has a small Kanadian flag pin stuck in his lapel.
“These guys are ready to play ball. They’ll pay you a million bucks U.S. for a release and confidentiality agreement.”
Andron studies the young man. The ride is bumpy.
“…but that’s just their opening.”
James clears his throat.
Andron remains silent.
“But you can push them for lots more, eh. They’ve got a lot of egg on their face over this whole thing.”
“Hopefully some ketchup, too.”
James blinks a few times while continuing to smile.
“Inside joke. Anyway, a million works for me. I could do lot with that. I’ll sign whatever they want. I just want my life back.”
“We’ll let them know, Mr. Varga. This is pretty sensitive for us, too.”
The boardroom table has more than twenty-five chairs around it. It’s the longest one he’s ever sat at. Every seat is taken. There are Amerigon government representatives, military men, a battery of lawyers and, of course, his two dukes from the Kanadian embassy.
They push the document to him. Andron looks at it quickly and pushes it back.
“Oops, I see a mistake already,” pointing to the bottom of the document, “there’s a footer with a network location description. Why tell the world which drawer and which file cabinet you hide your client’s secrets?
“That should be deleted.”
The government representatives look across at their lawyers with their backs upright. The document is whisked away.
“Meanwhile, can I get a refresh on my coffee please? This is damned good coffee.”
His cup is refilled.
Minutes later, the document reappears.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.
“For one dollar and other good and valuable consideration.
“Peppercorn for a promise, right?”
He looks in the direction of the lawyers who acknowledge him with open eyes but say nothing.
“Anyway, other good and valuable consideration, means my million bucks, I presume?”
The answers come from the lawyer with the greyest hair.
“Yes, it does.”
“Then I want to see
the check or I’m not signing anything.”
There’s a discussion at the other end of the long table. One of the lawyers leaves.
“That isn’t a problem, Mr. Varga.”
Another cup of coffee is consumed waiting for the freshly minted check to be brought in. He engages the embassy reps and the rest in a conversation about how cheque is spelled check only in Amerigo.
“I also want the dollar that’s promised me.”
The far side of the table looks at each other. The greyest-haired one reaches for his wallet.
“No, no, it’s got to come from them.”
The greyest-haired one puts his wallet away. One of the senior government representatives opens her purse. A dollar bill is passed down to Andron. He neatly spreads it on the table above of the papers he’s reading.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.
“Remise, release and forever discharge.
“Notice how they always leave out forgive?”
Andron’s voice cracks. He doesn’t look up. James reaches over and places his hand on Andron’s forearm.
Andron resumes reading.
“That’s a pretty tight list of folks getting released. I trust that’s everyone?”
The greyest-haired lawyer nods.
“Okay, let’s see what’s next.
“No admission of liability and all liability is expressly denied.
“Goes without saying.
“Well, what’s next here, a holy terror confidentiality agreement, I see.”
“Let me see if I have this right…if I open my mouth about any of this, all sorts of bad shit is going to happen?”
“I think that sums it up nicely, Mr. Varga.”
“All right. What’s next?
“Seems if I want to complain about any of this, I have to bring any legal proceedings in Costa Rica.
“They way I look at it, if I have a complaint I’ll need to book an all-inclusive and enroll in Spanish lessons. Nothing wrong with that.
“Nicely done, boys.”
The Cygnus Virus Page 4
