by Ian Young
A glanced at my watch: 12.30 a.m. Once I’d been able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. These days, my eyelids were merely shutters that closed my inner-self off from the gaze of others, but only so my mind could work away in private.
A tap on the door brought me back and I looked at my watch: 7 a.m. Well, I’ll be damned.
Shortly after breakfast we were back in the lab. I had to give Mason some credit; I didn’t expect to see him or the ball again. But seriously? He wanted to try and open the thing up?
Standing on a table in the centre of the lab was a bowl of water. Mason leant against the worktop along one wall, arms folded, skin rippled by what lay beneath. Why did muscly men insist on wearing extra short sleeves? Then again, it was no different to some women wearing hot pants, if you see what I mean.
Howie stood over the bowl, the other scientists spreading out around the table. He had that middle-aged gawp again; I’d only just noticed it in the last few days. It was like he was permanently straining to read some small print just in front of his eyes, then trying to make sense of its meaning. If intelligence was Howie’s best asset, he was doing a great job in hiding it right now.
Captain Ortiz hurried into the lab and looked around anxiously. ‘Have I missed anything?’
‘Just in time, Captain,’ said Howie, looking up, still concealing his major asset.
‘Mr Mason tells me this thing opened up like a sliced orange.’
Howie glanced at Mason, and just for a second his face turned to anger – the anger of the helpless victim. ‘Did he also tell you he stole it from me?’
The whole room turned to Mason, who seemed unruffled by the attention.
‘Safekeeping, Captain,’ he said.
I scoffed at this, and the whole room now turned to me. For some reason the first glare I caught was Finch’s. He smirked; of course he did. My cheeks smouldered and I wanted to punch him. Actually, Howie was a more likely candidate for my curled fist right now. I looked at him: that gormless stare, cheeks raised, eyes narrow and wrinkled. For the first time I noticed his oversized teeth, not quite straight, not consistently white.
‘Dr Menendes?’ said Howie, like a schoolmaster challenging a disruptive student.
‘Just dunk the ball, Howie.’
He gave a little cough and moved the ball into position above the bowl.
‘Here goes,’ he said. Howie dropped the ball into the water and jumped back as the splashes landed on the table. After a moment, the scientists started looking at each other, bored expressions souring the expectant mood.
‘Move it around,’ I said. ‘Which way is north?’
Captain Ortiz pointed the way and Howie used a finger to spin the ball round. The vibrations tickled my feet again, but the ball didn’t slide open. Howie continued to roll the ball around the bowl but, except for the intermittent buzzing, nothing happened.
‘Shit,’ said Finch, looking around and smirking at the other geologists like he’d done to me yesterday. ‘Dyer’s been sniffing some of his own drugs again.’
A light chuckle ruffled the room, but I supposed the ball held most of the attention. I reckoned they were still in awe of this freaky thing, whether they believed it opened up or not.
Mason shifted his weight and used his other elbow to prop himself up against the worktop. ‘I’m no scientist,’ he said without a trace of the famous British irony, ‘but wasn’t the water in your bowl hot water?’
Howie shrugged. ‘I guess, but …’
‘Why don’t we try hot water then?’ Mason raised his eyebrows and smiled.
I wanted to scoff, simply because he really wasn’t a scientist, and surely this group of actual scientists should have understood the importance of replicating the conditions that produced the original result. I couldn’t look at Mason in case he wore some kind of smug grin, though I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
‘Just do it … Professor,’ I said, emphasising his title.
Howie stood there like he was a vending machine waiting for someone to press the right button. I stepped aside and began running the hot tap.
Mason gazed down at me, watching me carry out his instructions. ‘It’s just an idea,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it won’t make any difference.’
I shrugged as though I really didn’t care. ‘Empty that water out, Professor.’
Howie stumbled as he carried the bowl to the sink and made a little puddle on the floor. Mason flicked his head at Cooper and motioned towards the puddle with a finger. Incredibly, the biologist picked up a rag and mopped up the water. Perhaps it was because they were both British – I don’t know.
‘Fuck!’ I scalded my finger testing the temperature from the boiler. That’ll be hot enough, then. The only thing missing was the eucalyptus scent, and I wondered if I should mention this before Mason did. I looked at him, trying to gauge his thoughts, but saw only the smug grin I dreaded.
Howie slipped on some gloves, stretching the rubber over his hands and wriggling his fingers to fit. Satisfied, he lowered the ball into the bowl, rolling it around until it rattled the room. And the damned thing slid open.
Finch blew a long sibilant whistle, but it was Mason straightening up that got my attention. The Englishman stepped forward and looked over Howie’s head at the sliced ball.
‘Curious,’ he said.
Of course he did. ‘I’ll buy you a thesaurus,’ I said, but no one took any notice.
‘Take it out,’ said Finch. ‘Let’s get a closer look.’
Howie dipped his hand into the water but whipped it out again straightaway. ‘Jesus H! What the—’
‘What is it, Howie?’ I stepped towards him and took hold of his hand. ‘What happened?’
‘The damned thing gave me an electric shock!’ Howie prised his hand out of mine and gave it a shake. He wriggled his fingers like he did when he first put the gloves on.
‘You got a shock through the rubber?’ Mason creased his head into a frown of doubt.
‘You bet I did,’ snapped Howie.
‘Right.’ Mason slid a glove on and reached into the water, pulling the ball out. But as soon as he lifted the ball clear of the water, the two halves slid back together.
Mason placed the ball on the table. ‘I see what you mean, Professor. But it seems fine now it’s closed up again.’ He stepped back and stroked his chin. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and place it back in the bowl?’
It didn’t seem like a question. The way the Englishman spoke – the lack of a rising intonation – made it sound like an instruction. Howie seemed to take it as such. He stood away from the table and dropped the ball in the water. As soon as he dunked it below the surface, the two halves slid open again, and he whipped his hand out.
‘What do you make of that?’ said Cooper, adopting a face similar to Howie’s middle-aged gawp.
‘Dunno,’ said Finch. ‘Whatever it is, water’s the key.’
Mason made that humming noise again, as though he was testing his voice before speaking. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he lifted the ball out of the water and once again the two halves slid together. He dipped it in several times, each time the ball opening and closing. After several minutes the game ended when the ball refused to open.
Finch looked around with a crestfallen face, like a cat realising the mouse had finally died. ‘Maybe it’s had enough water,’ he said, shrugging. ‘You know, it just opens when it’s … thirsty? Shit, I don’t know.’
Mason retreated to the worktop and resumed his casual lean. ‘Did anyone measure the water level before we began our experiment?’
Howie gave him the squint, but said nothing.
‘Well, if we had,’ continued Mason, ‘we could have determined if the ball had consumed any.’
‘You’re full of ideas now, aren’t y
ou?’ I said.
‘It’s better than having no ideas at all.’
Ouch! What was the matter with me? ‘Howie, what do you make of it?’ There stood a man of huge intellectual talent, rendered mute and dumb by the unknown.
‘I … I dunno,’ he said, his only contribution to the silence. ‘It still vibrates when I turn it north.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ I said.
Mason stepped forward again. ‘Someone said … you, Dick, wasn’t it? That water is the key. I’d go one further and say hot water is the key.’
He held our attention like he’d become UCLA’s new Professor of Smug. ‘Howard, if I may call you Howard? It wasn’t open when you spotted it, or when you, Andi, brought it back. Perhaps the water in the bowl has just cooled down to below the point that triggers its opening.’
Again there was no rising intonation; Mason wasn’t throwing a question into the ring, he was telling us. And we were listening.
‘I’ll refill the bowl,’ I said.
‘Does anyone have a thermometer?’ asked Mason.
‘This is a lab, buddy,’ said Cooper. ‘Basic equipment.’ It seemed Cooper was so busy patronising Mason he didn’t recognise the irony that the only non-scientist here was leading the scientific experiment.
‘Thank you,’ said Mason, taking the thermometer from Cooper and dipping it in the replenished bowl. ‘Ninety-eight degrees, someone write that down. Andi?’
‘Sure,’ I said, scribbling on a pad, then looking back at Mason, waiting.
‘Andi, would you like to pop the ball back in the water?’
I did as he instructed and immediately the ball opened.
‘Leave it there,’ said Mason. ‘My guess is that when the water cools down below a particular point, the ball will close.’
We were like freshmen, stood around the scene of our very first science experiment in high school. Whatever it was, it appeared to be resisting the scrutiny of every scientist in the room. Only Mason appeared unaffected by the ball’s behaviour.
At just under eighty-five degrees, the ball closed. The smug Englishman had been right: this thing opened only in hot water, when facing north.
* * *
Prague, 7 February
Zdeněk Hanzel barely remembers the days before the Velvet Revolution – the days when his predecessors were despised by the very people they protected. Or so they claimed. The reality was that his profession protected the state, not the people, and by state it meant the system that kept the privileged privileged. All that changed twenty-five years ago, thank God, and now he is respected, or would be if anyone knew he was what the Americans call a secret agent.
As an officer in the Bezpečnostní Informační Služba, Hanzel rose quickly through the bureaucratic labyrinth of Czech government organisations. In his new role he wouldn’t usually get involved in footwork; he has agents for that kind of caper, but this is an unusual case, and the tip-off had come from a source he deeply mistrusts. Besides, he needs the practice; the target has clocked him twice. He’s like an amateur – he is an amateur. But good thinking to bring a small suitcase; these people always go straight to the airport. There was no need to suspect this new face would break that routine.
Hanzel makes for the trolleybus’s door and steps out on to the platform, taking a moment to gawp at the signs, knowing perfectly well where the airport shuttle bus departs from. After a moment he picks up the suitcase and makes his way along the concourse to the stop where a queue has already formed. There, under the shelter, stands his target. The man, probably in his sixties, stamps his feet on the cold concrete floor, hands stuffed into his pockets – a man unused to Prague’s winter. Hanzel catches his eye again and smiles. He has nothing to lose: the intelligence officer walks straight up to the target and drops his case beside him.
‘Dobrý den,’ says Hanzel, greeting the man and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. ‘You were on the trolleybus, weren’t you?’
‘Sorry,’ says the man, ‘I don’t speak Czech.’
‘Ah, English?’
‘Yes, well, no.’ The man laughs. ‘I mean, I speak English, but I’m not English.’
‘American?’ Hanzel notes the cigarette hasn’t been taken and he withdraws the packet, taking one for himself. He hates smoking, but it’s a useful tool, something he discovered as a detective earlier in his career.
‘No, Irish, from Dublin, just here for … well, it doesn’t matter.’
Hanzel lights the cigarette and suppresses a small cough as he sucks down the smoke. ‘You’re a priest, are you?’
‘Eh? Oh this.’ The man fingers his white collar and nods. ‘For my sins, so to speak.’
‘Are you trying to convert my country?’ Hanzel laughs and blows the smoke up into the air above him, his eyes stretching down to watch the priest’s reaction.
‘I think it’d take more than one Catholic priest to do that.’
‘You’re right,’ says Hanzel, ‘not many religious followers in the Czech Republic.’ He watches the priest closely, waiting for his response. But none comes.
‘Bartoli,’ says Hanzel, holding out his hand. ‘Pavel Bartoli.’
‘Sean Unsworth. No need for the formal title.’ Unsworth shakes Hanzel’s hand but says nothing more.
‘Here’s the bus,’ says Hanzel. He helps the priest on but elects to sit elsewhere, bidding the old man a good journey.
Hanzel needs only to watch his target at each stop, just to make sure he doesn’t get off before the airport. But the priest remains in his seat until the bus arrives at Terminal 1, Ruzyne Airport. Hanzel lingers. He just wants to see which flight the priest takes, that’s all. After making a couple of phone calls, the priest rushes to the toilet, and Hanzel wonders if he should go after him.
But what’s the point in waiting? He has all he needs: a Catholic priest from Dublin called Sean Unsworth. He can trace him back at base.
Chapter 5
South Pacific, three days earlier
Howie and his new geologist friends from Washington were treating this freaky ball like it really was from outer space. I had to concede that, whatever it was, or wherever it was from, it did demonstrate some unusual, and unexplained behaviours. But that’s just science. We know what we know, and we know what we don’t know. And what we don’t know is still science; it doesn’t have to be from outer space to explain it. That’s like my dad telling me ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’ What could I learn from that? There was not a shred of evidence that Howie’s ball came from anywhere else other than Earth. After all, I found it here on Earth.
We’d repeated the opening closing experiment several times until we could learn nothing more, or in my case, until I got bored, which hadn’t taken long. So it opened and closed in hot water (when facing north). Big deal. I had more important matters milling around inside my head. Me and Howie, for instance.
I’d left early, leaving the other scientists – and Mason – to fuss over their ball, like boys with a remote control toy. I guessed even Mason had become bored with the tricks Howie’s ball pulled since he let him have it in the end.
On his way back from the lab, Howie stopped by and invited me to his cabin. I declined at first, but when he shrugged and said ‘up to you’ I decided we needed to talk.
After traipsing down the gangway behind him, entering his cabin and slumping on his bed, I expected some kind of conversation would come along. But no. I ended up just watching him pack his bag, listening to his mumbled inventory, and rolling my eyes at the mess. There was no conversation whatsoever. Was I just here to keep him company?
‘Howie?’ I said, sitting up on the bunk. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day.’
‘Uh?’ Howie carried on collecting his things together, carelessly tossing them into the bag as though
someone else would have to unpack it. Mrs Dyer? I supposed so – it certainly wasn’t going to be me.
‘I said I’ve been thinking about … you know … what you said about when we get back to Santa Monica.’
Howie stopped packing and turned to me. ‘Honey,’ he said, looking down at me like his next words would ‘be let’s not talk about it now.’
‘I meant what I said, Andi, but …’ a consolatory smile ‘… let’s not talk about it now.’
I jumped up from the bunk and stomped around the room. ‘Screw it, Howie, you’re so damned predictable. Maybe that’s the problem here.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He pulled his face into that gormless look, nose hitched up, top lip peeled back over his front teeth.
‘We fly back to LA tonight,’ I said. ‘I think we both have some thinking to do.’
‘Awe, come on, Andi.’ He threw down the pair of pants he’d been holding. ‘We’re on the brink of what could be the greatest scientific discovery of all time, and you’re still obsessing about us.’
I slapped him hard, then clenched my fist at the sting. He touched his cheek and glared at me. I didn’t move away; there was no way Howie would hit me back. Perhaps that was another problem: there was just no life in him, no strength, no anger. Part of me wanted him to strike me, to grab my arm and throw me on the bunk, threaten me not to hit again. But he just bent down, picked up his pants and stuffed them in the bag.