A Vial Upon the Sun

by James Codlin

  Gina and Lenin stayed in a crouch and scrambled into a storefront. Lenin glanced behind and saw their pursuer retreating into the alleyway as approaching police sirens blared in the distance.

  *

  Nicolás Ibarra drummed his fingers on a rough tabletop. It was oppressively hot in the warehouse, the humid air pressing down on him like a blanket that had marinated for years in the odors of the diverse goods that had been stored there. There was an echoing cacophony from the hundreds of men and women billeted in the cavernous building as they talked, shouted, sang, argued, and fought—anything to release the tension of weeks of inactivity.

  None of these things bothered him. He had learned from his years as a revolutionary to be patient. His mind and body were indifferent to pain, discomfort, and even stultifying boredom. Nicolás was accustomed to the habits and needs of both experienced and first-time warriors.

  Over a period of months small squads of his forces had gradually moved their assets south to Ciudad Bolívar on the Orinoco River. Then he had dispersed them onto rusted barges, tramp steamers, riverboats, and even canoes to head east to the coast and then southeasterly to Albina, Suriname. Now the army awaited further orders to move into French Guiana and engage. Nicolás had argued fervently against an overland attack, as it would be a logistical nightmare to move an army through the most dense and extensive jungles of South America. But the revolutionary council, and most specifically its advisors from the Middle East, had overruled him, ordering him to attack French Guiana from the west. And worse, they had dictated that the forces would not mobilize down the main coastal road into the French department, but rather through the jungle further south. They insisted that, like the Japanese attacking Singapore through Malaya in World War II, the French would never expect an attack from the forests.

  Nicolás’s best arguments had failed. He had never anticipated that his life as a revolutionary leader would entail waiting to execute the ridiculous and ill-conceived orders of others, and yet here he was. But the possibility of bringing the establishment cowering to its knees—even if only for a brief time—was worth swallowing his pride and doing what he was told for now. Once he held the rocket, all of the power would shift, and the eyes of the entire world would be on him. All he had to do was wait just a bit longer.

  *

  Lenin and Gina sat with their backs against a concrete wall. The building was still under construction, with the steel frame in place and tilt-up walls being positioned.

  Lenin looked around to confirm that they were screened from the street.

  “Now what?” Gina asked.

  “I suppose you don’t know any other world leaders to go to,” Lenin said with a grim smile. “What about your colleagues in the press corps?”

  “That’s it! Dennis Prinn, a television guy. I can trust him.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  “He doesn’t stay in hotels. His equipment trailer is self-contained. But there was a photo on his desk of a girl and a new house in the Palos District. He’s probably camped there—unless he’s already screwed things up with the girl… always a possibility.”

  They stood and hurried around the corner to face the street. Lenin waved frantically to a cab going by, but the driver ignored him. It was followed by a long stream of private vehicles.

  “Too bad we can’t call an Uber,” Gina muttered. “We won’t last long out here.”

  On cue, the tires of a Lexus headed the opposite way screeched as the driver hit the brakes. The horn of the car behind it blared. Heavy traffic in the next lane blocked the Lexus from turning.

  Another cab was coming fast, the driver trying to avoid eye contact. Lenin jumped from the curb into its oncoming path and the cabbie was forced to lock up his brakes. The car went into a skid, rotating slowly as it veered toward Lenin. The historian dove onto the hood, sprawling with his face against the windshield and hanging desperately on to the wipers. The car slammed into the curb, rocking crazily as it stopped.

  “You crazy son of a bitch!” the driver screamed, opening his door. “What the hell—”

  Lenin scrambled off the hood, opened the back door, and slid into the back seat. Gina dove in beside him. The driver, enraged, yelled, “Get the fuck out of my cab! I ain’t taking—”

  A bullet shattered the passenger-side window, and the driver shrieked.

  “Get this car moving or we’re all dead!” Lenin shouted.

  The driver slammed the accelerator, lurching the car onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dove for the street or back into storefront doors as the cab smashed into a food stall, spinning the small wooden shack and showering the street with skewers of meat and corn. A bullet slammed into the trunk lid, ripping it open and bending it upward. “Jesús, Maria, San Cristóbal!” the cabbie yelled.

  A bullet ripped through the rear window, exploding the plastic crucifix hanging from the rear-view mirror and shattering the windshield. The car roared down the sidewalk then bounced off the curb into an intersection, where it made a fish-tailing right turn onto the cross street.

  Lenin threw an American hundred-dollar bill on the front seat and barked, “Lose that guy and take us to Palos.”

  “What about all this goddamned damage to my cab?”

  Lenin dumped two more hundreds on the front seat.

  “It’s going to cost a lot more than that!”

  “Bullshit! Insurance will cover it. The money’s for you. Just keep driving!”

  The cabbie took another look in the rear-view mirror, executed a series of fast turns, and then headed toward the Palos district of San Juan Diego.

  *

  Carolina watched Nicolás from where she sat at a table scattered with papers on the other side of the warehouse. She felt a surge of irritation at his ability to sit and do nothing while she managed all of the logistics. But there was one clear benefit to Nico’s laziness—it gave her the freedom to make some decisions on her own.

  Her phone rumbled, and she answered it immediately. Instinctually she spun away from Nicolás despite him being a good 50 meters away.

  “The last forces arrived during the night. We are fully in place.”

  “Good, I’m making a note of it.” She scribbled on a computer-produced Gantt chart, noting the date on a bar entitled MAIN ATTACK FORCE—NIEUW AMSTERDAM, SURINAME “The transports are scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Have everyone ready to deploy.”

  “Of course, commander. I will advise you of the embarkation.”

  Glancing up, Carolina was startled to see Nicolás approaching. She hung up and put a pad of paper over the Gantt charts. She picked up a fax and pretended to study it.

  Nicolás put a hand on her shoulder. “What are all those papers?”

  She ignored him and began to write rapidly. A fax machine on the table bleeped, screeched, and disgorged more sheets of paper.

  “What would Che Guevara think of planning a revolution using Gantt charts and critical path analyses, communicating by mobile phone, and putting armies on the march using faxes?” He watched her face. She continued frowning in concentration, her eyes scanning the text line by line, her left hand making neat notations on a yellow legal pad.

  “Hey,” he said gently, “I’m talking to you.”

  “We need to arrange the television coverage,” she said. “It has to be in place in Kourou within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “The container—”

  “Arrived from Charleston yesterday. It’s offshore at this moment. But we need the technician… otherwise we’ve just got a bunch of useless gear.”

  Nicolás dropped his rucksack on the table.

  “My flight leaves Paramaribo in an hour and a half. I’ll get him.”

  He reached down and took her hand. She looked up at him, frowning.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked.

  “You make it sound like you’re going on vacation,” she said.

  “It is, in a way. We’ve been so focused on arrangements here in camp, a
change will do us both good.”

  She eyed him closely. “What is with you?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I think I’m beginning to get old. In some ways the feel of a young woman next to me in a hotel bed is as good a prospect as the national liberation of French Guiana.”

  She pulled her hand free. “Get yourself a whore in San Juan Diego, then. I don’t have time.”

  Nicolás grabbed her arm. “You have a younger, better prospect here?” he demanded, gesturing toward the many men lying on cots and walking around in various stages of undress.

  “Don’t go bourgeois on me. Everything we’ve been working toward depends on the next few days. I need to be here. You have your tasks. I have mine.”

  Nicolás released her arm, and she turned her back to him. As she resumed writing, he shrugged, picked up his rucksack, and headed for the bathroom to prepare his travel disguise. Carolina stole a glance at the relic television mounted on the nearby wall, with aluminum foil wrapped around its antenna rods. The faded screen showed yet another talk show featuring King Carlos VII. The background roar of noise in the warehouse made it impossible to hear, but the closed captioning was on. The king was, as always, going on and on about the need to combine political and spiritual power and his fervent hopes for the return of Christ to rule the world.

  Carolina’s ETA combat years had taken place during the reign of the previous king, but she despised this nuevo royal just as fiercely. She had robbed banks, placed explosives in public places, and kidnapped men, women, and children until she was caught by the Guardia Civil. In prison she was beaten, raped, starved, and tortured. Years of suffering had sharpened her hatred for those who had been handed their privilege, money, and power to a fine, needle-sharp point. She could now focus that hatred on this king.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Dennis Prinn rubbed his temple and popped three Advils as he scrolled through his messages from the night before. Mostly texts from other media people, all asking him to come join them at such-and-such bar and they’d buy him a drink. Based on his pounding head, Dennis thought it was likely he met up with all of them. Then there were a few texts from early in the morning, mostly of the “hey, did you get home ok?” variety. He texted back to those who asked, letting them know he was home, but definitely worse for wear.

  Dennis groaned. He was getting too old for this lifestyle, but it wasn’t often that almost all his client base converged into one place at one time unless there had been some sort of disaster or terrorist attack, in which case partying wasn’t an option. But an inauguration? Well, that allowed everyone plenty of time to get into town and let it all hang loose. He wondered, though, how much of his partying was an effort to dull the ache that he still felt over the loss of Gina. His friend and colleague should’ve been there. She wouldn’t have been pounding drinks like the rest of them, but her acerbic humor and dignified presence always enhanced gatherings. How her father could go on with the inauguration was beyond his comprehension.

  Dennis lay back on the sofa cushions and listened to Paula puttering in the kitchen. Making a fresh pot of coffee, Dennis hoped. He opened his Twitter app and mindlessly scrolled through his feed.

  There was a noise outside the front door and Paula walked over, opened the door, and peered out. She pulled her head back inside and quickly shut the door. She turned toward Dennis, her eyes wide, and whispered, “There are two people hiding in my garden.” She ran toward the back of the house.

  Dennis reached into a drawer in the coffee table, withdrew a revolver, pulled on his girlfriend’s bathrobe, and headed for the door.

  *

  As soon as the taxi entered the Palos suburb, the driver pulled to the curb. Sensing that they had pushed the driver as far as they could, Gina and Lenin climbed out.

  All of San Juan Diego was new, and this neighborhood had just been completed eight months before. Grass had been laid down, but the trees were all new plantings. The walls in front of each house still lacked the vines and vegetation common to most middle-class neighborhoods in Latin American cities. As the two looked for the house that Gina had seen in the photograph, they shrunk against the nearest wall each time a car passed, averting their faces.

  Finally, Gina saw a house with an eight-foot fence in front, a blue tile roof, and a statue of Pan near the front door. She looked up the street and saw a dark blue Lexus turning the corner. She nudged Lenin, who turned his head, then looked frantically for cover. There was none. Gina enlaced her fingers and held them out to Lenin at knee level. Lenin shook his head, but Gina urgently nodded toward the approaching Lexus. Unable to think of any other options, Lenin relented. He shoved his briefcase through the bars and put his shoe into Gina’s hands. He transferred his weight and pulled on the wrought iron with his hands, then threw a leg over it and jumped down into the patio area.

  Lenin was on his knees and collecting himself to stand when he saw a blur outside the iron gate. In a fluid movement Gina flew to the top, swung her legs over the wall, and gently dropped to the ground. They both fell to a prone position behind some leafy garden plants, listening as the car slowly drove past.

  Behind them they could hear the house’s front door open. Gina looked over her shoulder and made eye contact with a woman in a negligée peering out the door. The woman’s eyes widened with alarm and she disappeared, slamming the door behind her.

  Gina and Lenin exchanged glances, wondering what to do next. Before they could act, Dennis Prinn swaggered out of the house carrying a pistol and wearing a woman’s bathrobe that barely reached his thighs. He squinted at the two on their knees.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “Gina, it’s you!”

  Gina grabbed Dennis’s arm, turning him around and leading him back toward his open front door with Lenin trailing awkwardly behind.

  As the trio entered the home, Dennis said, “You’re being pursued? By who? The terrorists? Is that why you’re hiding?” Dennis’s mind, already dulled by the hangover, was now tossing around, completely unmoored by this sudden chain of events. He slumped back onto his couch and stared up at Gina and the vaguely familiar-looking bald man.

  “I promise, you’ll get the whole story,” Gina said. “By the way, this is Professor Teodoro Lenin. It was his house that was destroyed by the bomb.”

  Lenin reached out to shake Dennis’s hand, but the Australian technician remained motionless and slack-jawed. Lenin let his arm hang in the air a few moments, and then slowly let it drop to his side.

  “How did you know about…?” He gestured to the room.

  “The picture you had on your desk in Rome,” Gina said. “I know this will sound bizarre, but the king of Spain is plotting to reestablish Spain’s rule over its former colonies, including the entire Latino Union.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dennis said. “Have some mercy on me. I have a raging hangover and one of my friends just rose from the dead!”

  “We also think the pope is involved,” Lenin said.

  Dennis looked back and forth between their pinched faces. “I partied hard last night, and I must have gotten drunker than I thought.” He rubbed his eyes. “You guys, I’m really glad to find out you’re both alive. Good on ya! But you’ve got kangaroos loose in the top paddock. You’re saying things that don’t make any sense.”

  Lenin banged his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out the computer and papers. “Read,” he ordered in his best professorial voice.

  *

  Martín Ibarra awakened to the sound of heavy doors opening somewhere near the room where he was lying. He opened his eyes and sat up, letting out a hiss as searing pain jabbed at his torso.

  He saw only a dark gray blur before him, as if he were engulfed in dense fog. He looked straight up, and the fog was a lighter gray. He rolled his eyes left, and everything was darker.

  The images of crashing through the glass came back, as well as his last moments of consciousness as the stocky man beat him with the blackjack while Father Serrano watched with
his hands on his hips.

  Panic enveloped him as his stomach heaved. He lunged from the bed and crashed to a rough cement floor. He blinked wildly but his vision would not clear. He felt something smooth under him and grabbed it with his hands—a plastic shrink-wrapped package of some kind, soft and pliable to the touch.

  Martín dropped the package and sat up. He felt iron against his back—the bed frame, he realized—and turned around to grip the frame, squeezing it with his hands. A sob ripped from his chest. Bizarre, disjointed thoughts from his period of waking-sleep began to fill his head as he tried to clear his mind.

  Father Serrano. What did he want? A religious fanatic who was out of control? Lay vigilantes and a rogue priest? A cult and a defrocked monk? Ultra-conservative church militants? Avengers of the death of Christ?

  Takeshi Ishikawa. Was he working with the dark priest? Why? How?

  Martín shook his head violently and rubbed his eyes. Still, he found only the same gray gloom.

  Martín heard the rattle of a key in the door’s lock and the cell door banged open. There was the shuffling sound of multiple people entered and he was hauled to his feet. His wrists were pulled together and clamped with handcuffs.

  “Martín Ibarra Flores, you are hereby ordered to appear this day before the court of the Holy Office of the Inquisition to answer charges of heresy. May God have mercy on your immortal soul.”

  *

  Dennis Prinn ended the call. His face was white and waxy and glistening with perspiration.

  “Not good,” Lenin surmised.

  Dennis grabbed a crumpled soft pack from the coffee table. The cigarette that went into his lips was bent, and his hands shook as he lit it.

  “Ben Moody. A national security staffer who’s been a great source for me. He said he knows something about your story of a coalition of guerrilla forces gathering in South America and swinging east.”

  “See—” Gina began.