by Fritz Galt
However, Liang was momentarily off balance. It was Brad’s chance to stand up. He rolled in the opposite direction and jumped to his feet in a semi-crouched position.
Remember. Resist the dark side, you must.
Brad sighed. Just when he had begun to think of Xen as real, he dropped a movie reference on him.
I can only work with what you give me. Now, do please pay attention.
Liang was leering at him with a look that stemmed from more than the spirit of competition.
“Hey laughing boy,” Brad taunted, and circled away from Liang’s dangerous right hand. “Is this Queensbury Rules, or what?”
“You can take any rules you want and shove them down your big mouth, which I intend to silence forever.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Suit yourself. By the way, did I ever mention that you’re incredibly ugly? It’s lucky for you that you were born into the privileged caste, or you could only get prostitutes to look after you.”
That was good. Make him lose himself in anger.
Liang snorted like a bull and lunged at him.
Brad charged forward at the same moment, intent on engaging his opponent head-on. Liang opened his palm and met him with a vicious blow to the chest.
A moment later, Brad found himself groggy and flat on his back.
Liang stood over him, “That was too easy.” He sounded disappointed. “What kind of life could one as weak as you offer a woman like May?”
Brad was lifted by two fists clutching his hair and came eye-to-eye with someone preparing to rearrange all the major features in his face, one by one.
But he liked his face more than he valued the Queensbury Rules. He kicked up wildly between Liang’s legs, only to have Liang deflect the blow with an arm.
However, the intent of Brad’s kick was not lost on Liang, who only grew more incensed. He grabbed Brad by the neck in a headlock. The crook of his left elbow pinched Brad’s windpipe. With his right arm, Liang pushed Brad’s head forward. Oddly, Brad took a moment to admire the fine material of Liang’s vest. Then the weight of Liang’s body crumpled Brad until he was pinned against the ground on his stomach. The guy didn’t want to mess up his suit, so he used Brad as a cushion.
Brad searched frantically with his toes for something to push against. Without traction, his legs were useless. And his arms were less than useless. One arm stuck out helplessly from Liang’s vise-like grip and jerked over his head. It waved like a puppet’s arm on a string. His other elbow remained pinned beneath him and was powerless.
Brad scraped the tops of his sneakers against the smooth concrete and tried in vain to kick himself free. But that only increased the pressure against his neck.
Relax.
Okay, that had to be the worst advice yet. He was going to die.
Are you so sure?
Where was May? Couldn’t she help? Then a sea of blackness overwhelmed his consciousness.
Chapter 37
Eventually, Brad came to. How long had he been out? His vision was blurred, but he finally made out a sympathetic face. It was Sullivan.
“You always sleep in the middle of the living room floor with a bucket?” he asked.
Wow. Brad had had occasional moments of déjà vu before, but never with such a profound impact. Man, he was in the middle of another crazy dream.
“Xen-hat?” he called out.
“No. Sullivan,” the secret agent said.
“Oh, sorry. Not you.”
Brad slowly propped himself up on his elbows. Yep, there was a bucket next to him, and over in the corner he saw Cheno’s armchair. It all seemed real enough. He was back in Tucson in that flophouse.
“But, I’m getting pasted,” he tried to explain.
“I know you’ve had a rough go of it, but don’t worry. I’ve got a feeling it will turn out for the best.”
“Uh, thanks. But you’re not real. I’m in China being choked to death.”
“Oh, I’m real enough,” Sullivan said, and offered his hand to pull Brad up off the floor. “Why don’t you sit up. Get your bearings. I have something important to talk to you about.”
The CIA operative, the man with the PDA to Langley who could escort him into U.S. embassies and sought to save entire politburos, had a kindly though concerned expression as he guided Brad over to the cozy armchair. He sat down at Brad’s feet and began in an apologetic tone.
“I haven’t been straight with you. It hasn’t been easy for me to find the right moment to tell you this. It’s about your father.”
“Last I heard, he was up on the dam before it blew.”
Sullivan looked confused, but proceeded anyway. “I’m talking about your biological father.”
“Oh, you found him?”
“Yes. I’m your natural father, and I must beg—”
Okay, this was crazy. “Xen!”
Ignoring Brad’s cry, Sullivan went on. “I know it comes as a shock, but I’ve had a hard time finding you. Your mother—”
“Listen, this is a dream. You are not real.”
Where are you, Xen? This time he remembered to keep the words internal.
Sullivan reached up and touched him on the knee. “You’ve likely had an intense experience induced by the psychotropic drugs. The people using this house all have knowledge of Peruvian shamanistic practices, and they have access to substances through their research. It’s normal to be extremely disoriented at first, but necessary for the kind of work we think you’ll be doing.”
“Work? What kind of work?”
“We’re looking to develop a new breed of field agents, highly intuitive, able to tap into abilities that are dormant in most people.”
“You’re nuts. These aren’t agents. Cheno is Skeeter’s friend.”
Sullivan smiled. “Cheno had been cultivating a range of contacts as part of bringing you over. He knew Earl was your best friend. You were tagged a while ago as being extremely susceptible to this kind of training. And your personality profile was a perfect match. It’s how I finally found you. Just one more ironic twist in this universe’s history of ironic synchronicities. Sorry to use you in this way, but it was necessary.”
Brad just stared at the man whose words weren’t making sense. “But you don’t understand,” he said. “Sure, I did some ceremony, some voice was talking in my head, and everybody had light coming out of their bodies, but I’m not hallucinating when I say I’m really outside an airplane hangar in China being choked to death by the president’s grandson at this very moment.”
“Just take a look at this.” Sullivan pulled his wallet out and retrieved a wrinkled photo of a small family.
Brad reached for it. The glossy photograph with its old-fashioned white frame seemed to expand to fill his entire field of vision. There was a man, a woman and a little baby. The image of the baby reminded him of pictures he had seen of himself at that age. But the woman was definitely his mother. And there in the photo with an arm around his mom was a younger version of Sullivan himself.
“Wow, that’s really a convincing picture you have there.” He held the photo in one hand while rubbing his temple with the other. “But you must be well aware anyone could have composed this on a computer by blending various images together.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Ah, to win my favor and gain influence?”
“No. You deserve to know the truth.”
He had to laugh. What did this illusory character that was trying to help him live out his childhood fantasies know about truth? “But really, that’s okay. I’ve got enough heavy stuff in my life right now. In fact, I’m probably not even alive anymore if Liang has his way. So I guess this must be heaven, or the other place.” He looked around.
“Can’t say I blame your reaction to all of this,” Sullivan said. “I probably deserve as much, but I want you to know I’m here to help you any way I can.”
“Thanks, Dad, if that is your real name. But unless you can alter my personal reality, I th
ink I’m pretty well stuck. Now, if I could only wake up.”
“Well then, let’s go outside for a breath of fresh air. That might clear your mind.”
“Good idea. I have to admit, I do feel like I’ve been out for a week.” He rose unsteadily.
“What with all you’ve been through recently, that’s perfectly understandable.”
They made their way toward the front door. It was another blazing hot day, so he just sat down on the front porch swing and prayed for a breeze.
“I guess my name must be Sullivan, then,” he said, playing along, testing out all the possibilities as long as the dream persisted.
“Well, actually, no,” Sullivan said. “It’s still West. I’m your namesake. Bradley West, Sr. I go by Igor Sullivan as an alias. Your mother allowed you to keep something from me, I guess.”
“Funny, I had the chance to change it to Richter after she died.” He paused, suddenly feeling slightly emotional. “Shoot. I hate when…” then suppressed a choked-up sensation. “Uh, something felt wrong. Plus I hated the guy.”
“So you no longer hate him?”
It was hard to hate someone that was probably dead. But he shouldn’t get his hopes up as long as he was denying himself cheerful thoughts.
“One way or another, he’s out of the picture. Jade took care of that.” He thought about the moment when Richter must have realized that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sullivan cocked an ear. “Jade?”
“Jade Wang, hot babe. She was given the go-ahead to fire a few missiles into the dam in order to rescue the Central Committee that was…”
“Hold on. How do you know her?”
“She works for you, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but, that’s highly classified. And what do you know about my work?”
“Relax, you’ll tell me eventually,” Brad assured him, somewhat mockingly.
Sullivan walked down the few steps and stood beside one of the yucca plants growing out of control against the wooden house. “I’m beginning to think that maybe you had quite an Ayahuasca ceremony last night.” He plucked one of the white flowers and studied the spiky cluster. “I know a little bit about altered states. And I know that incredible things can happen with the perception of time and the future.”
Brad suddenly began to grow uneasy. He looked down at the old, dumpy cushions of the swing he was sitting on and rubbed his hand across the worn fabric. He smelled its musty odor, then noticed his own pungent smell. He had never had such a realistic dream before, certainly not so rich with smells and physical texture. He even felt all the sore spots in his body caused by the crash in May’s helicopter. He felt his shoulder again, where May had almost dislocated it in order to get him out of the burning aircraft.
The senior West dropped the flower spike by spike, climbed the steps, and sat on the ledge atop the porch wall. His back to the street, he studied Brad. “This is strange. I came over here to tell you I was your father and to try to convince you to come to China with me. But I’m having second thoughts. I believe I may have already put you through too much.”
“Yeah, my new dad is a regular puppet master,” Brad said, only half quipping, but without malice or bitterness “I know you were there all along, helping me from behind the scenes. You did get me to China. And it almost worked. I did save Dr. Yu, and I was trying to save May when Liang came along.”
“Best to stay away from that dude.”
“Too late, at least I think it is. I’m not so sure what’s dream and what’s reality anymore.”
Xen? He pleaded in his mind, but got no response from the tree spirit.
“Well, best to take it easy a few days, son—” The elder West caught himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to force the relationship. Anyway, here’s a new number to call me when you feel like talking.”
He handed Brad a generic card with just his name and a telephone number printed on it.
“I’ll be checking up on you as soon as I can. I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire at the moment.”
“A spy’s life is never dull. Take it from me.”
“That sort of life didn’t make up for what I missed,” his father said simply. His face grew somber and he turned to go. “Your mother was very psychic. Don’t know if you remember any of that?”
“Yeah.” Brad reflected on his past. “I never thought of it that way. I mean, it wasn’t very scientific, but she was always guessing who was calling on the phone before she answered it, and she had a knack for finding the closest parking spot to our apartment. She would say the parking space found her.”
“Trust me, you don’t know the half of it. In all honesty, she wouldn’t approve of the career path I foisted upon you.”
“That’s okay. Like I said, I’m not even here,” he said with a cheery note. “But as long as we’re stuck with each other in this place, whatever it is, we might as well remain cordial, Mr. Sull… Igor. Bradley. So, what do I call you?”
His dad turned around. “Anything you want will be fine by me.”
He glided down the front porch steps, got in his ordinary, government-issue car, and drove away.
Brad felt more lonesome at that moment than he could ever remember.
Xenhet, where are you?
He felt overcome by an instantaneous hunger. So he headed back inside to see if anything was still in the fridge.
Man, if his hunger wasn’t real, then nothing was. What had he accomplished in China, really, except to die and turn into a mental case?
He opened the door to the refrigerator. All he could find was an old yogurt container full of what appeared to be fresh, juicy prunes. That and a couple of eggs in the built-in egg tray. He took out one of the eggs and spun it on the counter.
Hmm, hard-boiled. But he hated cold eggs.
He might as well start with the prunes. He could use the fiber. So he held the carton over his mouth, and several prunes that were stuck together landed on his tongue. He began to chew and swallow. Uh-oh. One sticky, semi-frozen piece became lodged halfway down the wrong pipe.
He started gagging and grabbed for his throat. He tried to cough it out, but it was stuck.
How does somebody perform the Heimlich on himself? He bent over, shoved his fist into his gut, and pushed upward toward his diaphragm.
Oh no, oh no. He made a dash for the bedroom to see if Cheno was still there. Nobody was in the room.
He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed 911. He tried to wait for a response, but blacked out just as a voice began.
“Tucson Dispatch Center. Is this an emergency?”
Chapter 38
May fingered the twin buttons of the cannons.
Her heart raced as she watched Liang’s chillingly brutal assault on Brad out on the airstrip. Then Brad’s body went limp. Where were General Chen’s troops? What was taking them so long?
She struggled with the tactics of the situation. If she left the plane, the soldiers would surely attack. If she tried to shoot at Liang or the truck, Brad or Jade would likely die as well.
Once again, Liang proved the master at chess. But in a split second, she no longer cared. Brad was going to be choked to death if she didn’t get down there.
She lifted the cockpit canopy and popped her head up. With two firm rips, she extended the slits up the sides of her dress. Now she was ready for action.
She grabbed the ladder by its edges and slid to the floor of the hangar.
Liang looked up to see a sleek young woman silhouetted against the hangar. She was dressed in an elegant chi pao that constrained her movement to mincing steps.
It was May. She had been the one threatening his troops with the cannon fire from the fighter jet.
“Troops! Front and center,” he barked, and squeezed Bradley West’s limp neck even harder.
May continued walking with purpose.
Most of the commandos poured out of the truck and faced her to form a semicircle of drawn weapons.
Liang cont
inued to hold the American in a death grip, but shook his head at the men. They lowered their guns.
So what was May doing in the jet? Then he saw the logic of it all. Liang had walked into her trap, and Bradley was the bait. “And now you’ve come to beg for mercy for your boyfriend,” he called out to her.
“Yes.” She walked calmly toward him. “And if you have just the smallest bit of humanity left in you, you’ll let him go.”
“Don’t tell me you really have feelings for this sack of dung.”
“He risked his life to save my father,” she said. She was approaching dangerously close. “What have you ever done like that?”
He let out a laugh. “I am risking my life to improve the world. And you would be helping me, if you had any appreciation for all this country has given you.”
She paused and looked down at her feet. Her body was slumped with shame.
“You’re right.”
She said it so quietly he could barely hear the words.
Through a dusty window in the back room of the hangar, Igor Sullivan watched May dismounting from the plane. But who or what was she walking toward? Her shoulders drooped subserviently as she moved out of view.
“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Earl whispered. “I feel like a jerk waiting here.”
“You’re right. Something’s wrong,” Sullivan said. “General Chen’s troops should have been here by now. There could have been more trouble at the dam.”
He looked from Earl to the anthropologist, then to the pilot and sentry sharing the office with them. He motioned with his head toward the door to invite the soldiers to come along. Both shook their heads no.
“Bloody orders,” he said. “Won’t do a thing without them.”
“Maybe they could spare a couple of side arms,” Earl said, and asked them a question in Chinese.
But that was also met with polite refusal.
