A Vial Upon the Sun

by James Codlin

  “Sir, this is Martín Ibarra.”

  The president sounded startled. “Yes? Hold for a moment, please.”

  Martín waited, and 30 seconds later the president was back on the line.

  “Where have you been? We have heard nothing from you for some time.”

  “First, Mr. President, let me express my most heartfelt condolences about Gina. I am so very sorry about what happened to her, and for your terrible loss.” His voice caught in his throat. “I would have done anything, anything, to prevent her…” He couldn’t finish.

  Ishikawa was silent for a time. “Well, we must all bear our burdens. Please, hold the line.” Even for a man who almost never displayed his emotions, the president’s response came across as incredibly callous to Martín. Taken aback, Ibarra waited.

  The president came back on. “What have you learned?”

  “Mr. President, my brother Nicolás is leading a force to the eastern coast of South America. My best guess is that they are heading to French Guiana with the intention of taking over the spaceport. Nicolás insinuated that he has retained foreign nuclear scientists and experts, essentially implying that he has nuclear capability. Although he didn’t spell it out for me, it would make sense that his plan would be to try and modify the LU’s Ariane 6 from its current communications satellite configuration to carry a nuclear warhead instead. I don’t know any of the details about what their specific demands or objectives will be.”

  Ishikawa said nothing for a long time. “Of course. A very smart move on their part, putting our union in a very embarrassing position with respect to Europe. It’s unstable right now in Guiana, with a strong independence movement. I am sure they will get support from the locals. We were all fixated on anticipating the targets within the union and didn’t consider the non-union countries.”

  “Mr. President, since the launch is scheduled to take place in two days, they must already be close by.”

  Ishikawa considered this. “I understand. Trust me, I do understand. Please hold the line again.”

  Martín once again thought about Ishikawa’s lack of reaction to his expression of condolence and it angered him. Did he care so little about his daughter?

  Takeshi Ishikawa came back on and said, “Martín, right now you are close to French Guiana, and your relationship to the rebel leader gives you insights others will not have. You have the latest information on the rebels’ intentions. You are a foreigner, not a citizen of the Latino Union, so I cannot order you to do anything. However, I am asking, on the basis of our past… association, that you go there and improvise a defense. Do your best to protect your brother and stop this mad plan of his. We will arrange to get you directly into French Guiana on a non-official basis via an airstrip just over the border in Brazil. The French will meet you there.”

  “Sir,” Martín said, “I’m sure it occurred to you, and that your military staff will consider it, but the fastest way to end this is an immediate air strike on the rocket.”

  “You are right, Martín. However, that is not something we want to do prematurely. There are Japanese technicians currently working there along with other foreign nationals, and it is French territory. We have those lives and French sovereignty to consider.”

  “Mr. President, then I urge you to warn the French and the ESA and get them to take immediate action. My brother and his entire movement will no longer have an objective if the rocket is removed from the equation. Otherwise, the security of any possible target city—”

  “You are presumptuous. Do you think for a moment that I don’t understand my responsibilities! There are complicated issues that you do not understand. There is a small military airfield in Cunani. You will be met by someone who can get you into French Guiana and Kourou. Keep me updated at all times.”

  The encrypted telephone circuit broke.

  Martín turned and saw that the pilots were eyeing him. He shrugged. “We’re going to Cunani,” he told them.

  *

  Lenin and Gina quickly worked their way back to her mother’s personal office, where they entered and, finding it empty, closed and locked the door behind them.

  “That… was not ideal,” Lenin said.

  Gina laughed mirthlessly. “You’re telling me. He looked at us like we were telling him we were time travelers from the future sent back to save the world.”

  “Then what is there left for us to do here? It seems unlikely that we will get any meaningful uninterrupted time with your father, who doesn’t seem inclined to listen in any case.”

  Gina shook her head. “Why does he have to be so goddamned stubborn? And don’t get me started on how rude it was for him to take a call while we were trying to have a conversation with him! It’s just like when I was in school and…”

  She looked up at Lenin, who was smiling down at her patiently. She grimaced. “I suppose this isn’t the time to resolve decades-old family dynamics.”

  “It’s quite alright. I completely understand. I think, sometimes, when we are in the presence of our parents, no matter the situation, we regress a bit. I suggest we get back to our hotel room and regroup… try to brainstorm other ways to convince your father of the truth of what we are saying. Or maybe even take a completely different approach.”

  Gina picked up the phone that sat on her mother’s desk. “I agree. But we should be discrete with our departure. I don’t really trust that everyone in this building will be happy to hear that we are still alive—and the fewer people that know that, the better.”

  As she dialed, a man in a crisp LU army uniform sat on the other side of the immense government complex, listening intently to the live feed streaming from the bug implanted inside the office. After a minute the man removed his earpiece. Quickly, he dialed his mobile phone. When the party on the other end answered, he summarized the conversation he had just heard and then went quiet as he received instructions.

  “Yes, General Mello,” he said once his orders had been received. “I will make sure that they do not leave the building.”

  *

  It was the middle of the night in Tokyo when Waro Moto was awakened by an aide. He walked into his living room wrapped in a robe. An executive from his company waited for him.

  “We have a recently recorded a call that triggered several keyword search alerts,” the aide said. He handed a phone to Moto, who listened to a recording of the conversation between Martín Ibarra and Takeshi Ishikawa.

  “Did General Mello check with Burgos?” Moto asked.

  “Yes, sir. Burgos advised him that they will take possession of Ibarra at a small Brazilian airfield near the Guiana border. Mello also told them that Gina Ishikawa and Teodoro Lenin are alive.”

  Moto raised an eyebrow. “That’s an unexpected loose end.”

  *

  The Latino Union military Gulfstream landed at the Cunani airstrip, which was no more than a slash in the coastal mangrove forest. Valencia brought the aircraft to a stop just short of the end of the asphalt, turned, and taxied the jet over to a twin-engine turboprop plane that sat waiting for them.

  “There’s your ride,” the pilot said.

  Martín dropped the fold-down steps and descended. As Martín emerged, the idling turboprop engaged the right-hand engine, raising a cloud of red dust. Martín bounded up the stairs into the open door. A man in a military-style jacket and aviator sunglasses shook Martín’s hand and in a smooth motion pressed a gun to Martín’s ribs.

  “Wave to the pilots so they know everything is just fine.”

  Deflated, Martín obediently stuck his head out the door and waved. Valencia and Lieutenant Vazquez gave him a thumbs-up, spooled up their engines, and started their takeoff roll. Martín watched forlornly as the LU jet accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air.

  The man closed the door and used the gun to direct Martín through a curtain and into the passenger area. There sat Father Serrano, who gestured at the seat facing him.

  “Have a seat, Architect Ibarra,” th
e priest said. “This is a flight to your destiny.”

  Martín felt the sting of a syringe in his arm.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After a metallic click in the lock, the office door swung open, revealing a small Asian woman with Gina’s build and facial features and a look of exasperated disapproval on her face. Before Gina or Lenin could speak, the woman pivoted away from them while giving an impatient gesture for them to follow. Sayoko Ishikawa led them down a side hallway and into a small room devoid of anything other than a plain, empty desk and one chair. She shut the door behind them.

  The older woman looked her daughter up and down, frowned, and hissed some words in Japanese. After an extremely tense exchange, Gina fell silent.

  Lenin felt invisible and watched in mute fascination until the small woman, arms still akimbo, turned her scowling glare from her daughter to him. She barked at him in English, “You are Doctor Lenin?”

  “Yes, uh, ma’am,” he said, uncertain of the correct form of address to the first lady. Lenin felt very much the student instead of the professor.

  “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life,” she said.

  “Oh, well, she is actually very self-sufficient.” Lenin felt awkward as he towered over the diminutive woman. Her eyes remained locked on his. “I’m sorry, Madam, but there is very little time. There is a crisis unfolding—”

  “Of course there is a crisis! Do you think I am blind and stupid? What do we have to do to stop it?”

  “We?” Lenin asked.

  “Yes, we. The two of you weren’t accomplishing anything in here by yourselves.”

  “Madam, there is a military emergency developing in Guiana. The president—”

  “I can assure you that the president is not controlling these events—others are. What can I do?”

  “Well, for starters, get us out of here,” Lenin said. “And no one can see—”

  “Obviously no one can see you leave,” Sayoko said, shaking her head as though she was addressing a dullard. The first lady pulled out her phone and scrolled through her list of contacts and then clicked on one. As she waited, she continued to glare up at Lenin, and then she began speaking rapidly in Japanese.

  Gina listened for a moment and then whispered to Lenin, “My mother is calling the landscapers who constructed the garden behind this building. They’re Japanese-Brazilians she’s known for many years. She’s ordering an immediate removal of a half-dozen small trees from the grounds, to be relocated and planted in the park downtown. She requested that it be done immediately, and included in her request a code indicating that this is a discrete favor.”

  Lenin nodded back at Gina as if he understood.

  A few hours later Teodoro Lenin and Gina Ishikawa rolled out of the official residence’s garage riding in a panel truck, sitting among a small, displaced grove of trees.

  *

  Martín woke up feeling better and more well-rested than he had in what seemed like weeks. Then with a start he remembered that he’d been abducted.

  He looked around and took in his new surroundings. His room was a simple space with whitewashed stone walls and high ceiling arches. He was lying on a steel-framed bed that was positioned along one wall. There was a wooden chair next to the bed, and a gold crucifix hanging above the metal headboard. Other than those items, the room was barren. The only exit from the room was through a heavy wooden door.

  Martín’s peripheral vision caught a reflective glint—a small video camera peering at him from high above, mounted on the ceiling. He got up and walked around the small room, noting that the coveralls that he had worn during his escape from the hospital in Caracas had been substituted with white cotton pants and a white T-shirt. The grime had been rinsed from his body, and Martín noted that his sweat and body odor had been replaced with a hint of lavender. The oil and grime in his hair were gone as well. For whatever reason, his captors wanted him presentable.

  The lock in the door rattled and the door swung open. Father Serrano, dressed in a black friar’s cassock, walked in carrying a Bible.

  “I’m pleased to see you looking well, Architect.”

  “Yes. Your drug of choice was quite benign—I’d love to get some from you for those nights I find it hard to sleep. But then again, it’s not often I feel the need to be unconscious enough to be hauled off a plane, hosed down, and scrubbed without ever waking up. And who knows what sort of nasty secondary purpose the drug may have. Tell me, Father, did I have a lot to say?”

  Serrano smiled and made a dismissive gesture as he sat down and crossed his legs.

  “You’ve seen too many spy movies. We already have all the information we need.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t bother to ask where I am.”

  “Your same question as in Caracas. My answer is the same as the one I gave you then: the exact location is not important.”

  “Can I ask who exactly is ‘we’? The ‘we’ who have all the information on me, I mean.”

  “That will soon be obvious to you,” Serrano said.

  “And why the makeover?” Martín asked. “You even gave me a manicure.”

  “The last time we had to intervene with chemicals, you were not particularly photogenic afterward.”

  Martín looked surprised, and the priest smiled.

  “Yes, in Venezuela. You thought it was the CIA or U.S. military, of course. That is certainly what your brother thought. It will make it much more difficult for them to work with Nicolás on any basis.”

  “What organization are you with?” Martín asked. “And why would you go to so much trouble to capture me of all people?”

  Serrano stood. “Whatever Sister Trinidad told you is already more than you need to know. I will impress upon her the need for more discretion. Now follow me—it’s time for your arraignment.”

  The legal term jarred Martín, as did the reference to the young woman who had helped him in the hospital.

  Serrano rose from the chair and knocked on the door, which swung open. He motioned for Martín to follow him, and led him out of the cell into a courtyard. At first Martín thought it was an overcast day, but then he realized that there was an opaque plastic canopy above him. A guard stepped up and locked leg irons around Martín’s ankles and clapped heavy handcuffs onto his wrists. Martín looked around and saw a line of identical cell doors at the base of a high wall. The cell he had emerged from was in the middle, with 10 identical doors on each side. He could hear the muffled noise of diesel engines and the horns of cars and trucks from somewhere beyond the walls. To Martín’s surprise, he was not socked away in some remote hideaway. The cacophony of urban life was being generated mere meters away from where he stood. They were somewhere within a major city, surrounded by busy streets.

  They crossed the patio of a three-story Spanish colonial townhouse. The corridors of each of the floors looked out on the patio and were semi-enclosed by graceful arches and delicate columns.

  Martín hobbled behind Serrano up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. The priest opened a heavy door, holding it open for Martín to follow. Along one side of the high-ceilinged room they entered were large floor-to-ceiling windows. They had been painted gray, but still glowed from the sunlight.

  As Father Serrano spoke in a low voice to another priest, Martín looked around the room. Getting out into the city and among the public seemed to be his only means of escape. He glanced at the windows. He could only guess as to the thickness of the glass. A few millimeters either way could be the difference between the glass shattering harmlessly or cutting him to shreds as he passed through it. Still, he really didn’t like the sound of an arraignment.

  Martín broke for the windows.

  The leg irons clanged loudly on the wooden floor as he frantically pumped his legs in mincing steps, slowly gaining momentum. Ibarra didn’t look to see his captors’ reactions or whether they were already in pursuit. Instead, he kept his focus forward on the windows. After a few more steps, Martín pivoted, turning his
left shoulder toward the glass, and lunged the remaining distance, his body bracing for the impact. He felt a surge of elation as it gave, shattering and exploding outward as his body passed through. Martín rolled in the air, and for the first time he considered the possibility that he was about to plunge into the middle of a street teeming with traffic.

  And then, far too quickly, his back slammed into solid stone. His vision went white as a shock of pain went through him. He slid down into a sitting position. After blinking several times he saw that he was now propped against a wall at the edge of a balcony located just outside the now-shattered window. Wheezing, he tried to stand, but between the restraints and his injuries he just rolled impotently onto his side. Martín could hear the traffic jam of cars below him, and he tried to scream, but the lack of air in his lungs betrayed him. Only a hoarse whisper escaped his mouth.

  Father Serrano stood over him with a pistol held against his ear.

  “I will give you credit, Mr. Ibarra. You are a fish that keeps trying to wriggle itself off the hook. But while I admire your tenacity, this game has grown tiresome. It’s a shame too. I really did want you to be at your most photogenic.”

  Serrano nodded at a wide, squat man with enormous arms and stood back, making way for him. The man pulled a blackjack from his belt and smashed it into the side of Martín’s head.

  *

  When Gina and Teodoro opened the door leading into their hotel room, they had expected to find that it had been ransacked and their possessions seized. To their relief, the room was undisturbed.

  The two of them spent the night laboriously reviewing their notes.

  “Our only chance is to produce some meaningful evidence backing my hypothesis,” Lenin said. “Even if your father won’t listen, there are many leaders here for the inauguration. Perhaps we can find one who will listen to us.” He rubbed his red eyes.

  Lenin logged into the genealogy database maintained by the Church of All Saints and returned to the record for Carlos I of Spain and worked his way forward as the family diagrams bifurcated for each successive generation of legitimate and bastard children. He downloaded records that brought him as close to Carlos VII as he could.