by James Codlin
“Moody says they are possibly joining up, and are tending to move in an easterly direction. And if they combine their forces, they probably have the capability to launch a limited offensive action against a soft target. There are unconfirmed indications they are led by Nicolás Ibarra, and the rocket being prepared for launch at Kourou could potentially, with sufficient time and expertise, be modified for an alternative payload. And on and on.”
“So, that confirms—” Lenin began.
“That confirms shit,” Dennis growled, rising and pacing. “Your papers are like a horoscope—vague and could apply to anyone to predict anything on any day. The Security Council strings together more qualifiers than a barrister—tending, probably, potentially, unconfirmed—sorry, Professor, but you don’t have bugger all.”
Lenin looked at Dennis’s shaking hand. “Oh? Why the anxiety then, Mr. Prinn?”
Dennis made a face at Lenin and took a deep drag.
Gina reached out and held Dennis’s arm. “You and I have known each other a while,” Gina said. “You think I’d concoct some crazy story?”
Dennis gave a vague gesture with his hand that signified he gave her some credence.
“I swear to God, if we go out on that street, we will be gunned down. If we hole up here and do nothing, or if we’re killed, something terrible is going to happen.”
Dennis stood in his undersized woman’s bathrobe, smoking his crooked cigarette and looking sick. He ran his hand through his hair several times, took two deep draws on his cigarette, and stubbed it out in a glass bowl.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Want to learn about the television broadcast business?”
*
Dennis Prinn drove his rental van across town with Lenin and Gina in the back, sitting among piles of newspapers. His head still throbbed uncomfortably, but getting dressed and heading out with a sense of purpose, no matter how bizarre, made him feel marginally better.
“So where are we going?” Gina asked.
“What’s the best way to hide something?” Dennis asked over his shoulder. “Put it right in front of whoever’s searching.”
He stopped the car and shut off the engine. “Hang tight, mates, I’ll be right back.”
In a few minutes the side door slid open. Dennis gestured for them to get out. “Follow me. Don’t stop, don’t look around.”
Gina went first, and Lenin followed. They had the sensation of going through a kind of hatch and then they emerged into a room. It was cold, lighted by fluorescent tubes, and animated by a bank of thirty small television monitors above a console covered with toggles, sliding switches, and a computer keyboard. The television monitors displayed shots of San Juan Diego, but some seemed to be showing television studios and outdoor scenes located in other countries throughout the world.
There was a clang behind them, and they turned to see Dennis closing a metal door behind him.
Dennis gestured around him and said, “Welcome to my world. We’re in the parking lot just outside the LU palace complex.” Gina and Teodoro flinched, but Dennis held out his hands in a placating gesture. “No worries, you’re okay. No one will look for you here.”
Dennis sat at the console and put on a headset. His fingers flew furiously over the keyboard. The small screens above flashed with new vistas—some of them in daytime, some night. Talking heads silently moved their mouths.
Dennis slipped one earphone off his ear and, while simultaneously watching the monitors and moving sliding switches with his hands, said, “I freelance for networks all over the world. Right out of university I scraped some money together and built two of these communications rigs into shipping containers.” He waved a hand at their surroundings. “All the latest link-up gear for any type of satellite and ground station. Fully self-contained. Gas turbine generator, bedroom, loo, water, galley. Have a look around.”
Dennis slipped his headset back on and spoke into his microphone. Gina and Lenin cautiously opened a door and found a galley similar to that of a sailboat’s, with a refrigerator, a microwave oven, and a sink. Beyond that was another door. Inside they found a tiny bedroom with a surprisingly large bed and an adjoining small bathroom. Above the bed was a flat-screen monitor. The opposite side of the container held a small studio with video cameras, a blue wall, and a desk with three chairs.
“I can be in place and set up about two hours after my container hits a port of entry,” Dennis said. “I’ve got friends in customs in most countries, and they clear me quickly.”
While Lenin dumped a can of can of chili in a plastic bowl and heated it up in the microwave, Gina sat beside Dennis at the control console. They were monitoring the two Latino Union television stations and 35 private and governmental stations from each of the member countries. Many were showing footage of the king and queen of Spain visiting the miserable and the homeless. The young royal couple was often accompanied by Pope Pius, who blessed the poor and held the ragged children to his chest.
There were also interviews with Takeshi Ishikawa, who looked cool and stately as he discoursed on Latin American politics and his vision for the new union of Latino countries. He spoke of important developments coming soon, and proclaimed that everyone needed to prepare for changes—changes that were designed to distance the nascent union from the last three hundred years of corruption, incompetence, and social injustice. “A new day is coming,” he said.
In panel discussions suited talking heads enthusiastically discussed the advantages President Ishikawa’s administration were bringing to Latin America as well as the challenges he would face. There were interviews with people on the street who praised Ishikawa’s intelligence, foresight, and boldness, as well as the new sense of morality and responsibility that the Spanish king and the new pontiff were bringing to Latin America.
Although decades of working in the media had made him a cynic, Dennis was struck by the blatancy of the propaganda. Almost all of the stations were carrying prepackaged pieces of incredible similarity. Entire passages were repeated as the announcers urged their viewers to follow in the footsteps of the Holy Father and rededicate themselves to God. There were reviews of rituals of the mass, communion, baptism, and confession—purportedly so that no one needed to feel awkward or embarrassed by not having been to church in many years. He turned around to comment on this to Gina and Lenin, but didn’t see them. He got up and walked to the back of his container and was not surprised to find that they were both sound asleep on the bed in his tiny bedroom. Crazy story or not, they had both been obviously stressed and exhausted.
After eating a few bites of lukewarm chili, Dennis signed off with his client networks, put his equipment on standby, and powered down his mobile television center so it would appear unoccupied. He scribbled a note for his guests to let them know that he would return shortly and politely asked that they not touch any of his electronics. Then he drove off in his rental van to see whether life on the streets matched what he had seen on television.
*
Dennis stopped at a security checkpoint and showed his press pass. Once cleared, he drove through, turning into the parking lot where his container was set up. He parked the van twenty meters from the steel box, grabbed his briefcase, and walked among the parked vehicles toward it. Dennis turned the combination lock and pulled down the hasp. Then he felt something hard press against his spine.
“Open the door slowly and let’s get inside,” a man said in Spanish-accented English.
Dennis eased the door open as the pressure on his back increased. They walked inside. Dennis heard the door slam shut behind him and the lock bolt slide home. The gunman patted Dennis down and then asked him to turn around.
“What do you want?” Dennis murmured, hoping not to wake Gina and Lenin.
“You and I are taking a trip.”
“Where? And why?”
“Your expertise is needed for an important cause.”
“And when do we leave?” Dennis asked.
“Now.”
&
nbsp; “If I do, an alarm will go out right away. I’m expected to be manning my station in five minutes and there are a dozen news producers who will lose their collective shit wondering where the fuck I am if I’m not in that chair doing my job when the time comes. Word will get out quickly that I am missing.”
The man grimaced. “How much time do you need?”
“No more than two hours. After that, you’ll have my full cooperation.”
“Do it.”
The gunman gestured at the chair in front of the bank of televisions, and Dennis slowly sat down. Dennis groped for the master switch on the console and flipped it. There was a whine as the gas turbine engine spooled up. The florescent lights and television monitors flickered to life. Dennis donned his headphones. He had bought himself two hours, but he hadn’t been lying. He was going to have to think through his options while working his ass off doing his day job.
Dennis glanced up at a blank monitor reflecting his assailant. The man was tall and thin, wearing a floppy cloth hat pulled low on his forehead. He wore glasses and sported a bushy mustache and goatee.
On the main monitors directly in front of Dennis were live shots of various reporters standing around San Juan Diego, ready to go. Once each of them went live he would perform his magic, matching their reports with shots he had collected from seven camera crews here in San Juan Diego, as well as live static shots of the presidential mansion. For the next ten minutes he was occupied by frantic news directors from three networks, lashing together a complicated timeline so that each of them would have their own window of exclusivity.
*
Martín blinked, trying his best to focus as he was led into a small room. Someone unlocked and removed his handcuffs and then shoved a folded item of clothing into his arms.
“Put it on, my son,” the man said. His voice was empathetic—almost sorrowful.
“Father? I… I don’t understand.”
“Please. It’s important that you follow instructions. Your immortal soul is at stake.”
Martín began to ask another question, but was elbowed sharply in the ribs by one of the guards. Already disoriented, his head swam with waves of agony and he doubled over, clutching his ribcage. He dropped the garment onto the floor.
“Gentlemen!” the priest said. “Even the damned deserve our pity and compassion.” He leaned down and whispered into Martín’s ear. “I will help you with this if you can just stand up straight for a moment.”
Martín did as he was asked, and felt the weight of the garment as it was lifted over his head and onto his shoulders. He then felt something get placed onto his head. Some sort of hat, he thought, although it was larger and more ungainly than anything he had worn before.
“Peace be with you, my son,” the priest said, and the guards pushed Martín forward. Fearing the infliction of more pain, he stumbled into a much larger room. He flinched at the bright lights bearing down on him.
“Can you move him a little bit more to the right?” a woman asked. The guards nudged Martín again, and he shuffled his feet obediently.
“Okay, that’s good. Mr. Ibarra? Can you hear me?”
Martín nodded.
“Good. We need you to stand perfectly still, okay? Otherwise, things will get unfriendly again.”
Beyond the woman’s voice, Martín heard the sounds of electrical machinery and men and women moving about, speaking Spanish. Martín tried to listen to what they were saying, which consisted of familiar-sounding jargon, but his dulled mind was unable to process and decode it.
“Mr. Ibarra?” came the voice again, this time in a scolding tone. There was the sound of fingers being snapped just in front of his face. “Are you listening? We don’t have time for nonsense. Nod now if you understood me!”
Martín nodded again.
“Good,” said the voice. “Everyone! Let’s get started! Places!”
For a few seconds the din around him increased as he sensed people scurrying around and taking their assigned positions. Then all was quiet.
The woman’s voice began counting down from ten. When it reached three, she stopped counting and silence descended upon the room. A few moments later, a man’s voice from directly in front of Martín began a prayer. The prayer called for God’s enlightenment, leading to His mercy and justice in the proceedings that were about to follow.
The voice was unmistakable. It belonged to Father Serrano.
*
During a lull between the live remotes, Dennis glanced at the unused monitors again and saw the gunman staring fixedly at a screen on the top row. Dennis followed the gunman’s gaze and saw footage of a figure in a white-hooded robe facing the camera, seated at a long table covered with white linen. To either side of the figure in white sat two figures in black, their faces hidden by the hoods of their cloaks.
The man in white facing the camera spoke, although no sound could be heard. Occasionally, the man standing with his back to the camera turned his head, showing a momentary profile of his face.
The intruder behind him put a hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “What is this we’re seeing?”
Dennis looked at his console, clicked a series of keys on his keyboard, and squinted at his computer monitor. “It’s a raw feed from a Latino Union satellite.”
“Where is it originating from?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s it for?”
“Unsure, but it looks like it’s a live feed that is being downlinked to television stations for later broadcast.”
“Can you get the sound?”
Dennis reset some switches. “I’ve got it.” He listened for a few moments as the feed’s sound played in his headphones and shrugged. “It’s in Spanish. I can’t understand most of it.”
The gunman roughly yanked the headset off Dennis’s head and clamped one of the earpieces to his ear. Dennis noted that he had dropped his gun to his side.
“Can you pause this—what’d you call it?—feed?”
Dennis looked around. “Well, I can’t stop the downlink. But if you’re asking if I can stop the image, yeah, my system is automatically recording it. I can freeze the preview any time. Just tell me when.”
The gunman stared at the screen, waited a few moments, and then barked out, “Now!”
Prinn clicked his mouse and the image froze on a shot of the man standing before the table. But even with the frozen high-definition image, the face was too small for the man’s features to be distinguishable.
“Can you zoom in on the face?”
Dennis clicked more switches and the face grew to fill the screen. The gunman was so engrossed in the television that he seemed to have forgotten where he was. He said something out loud in Spanish, and after thinking for a moment, Dennis recognized the words.
“Mi hermano,” the gunman had said. “My brother.”
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
An attractive young woman in a brightly colored silk blouse stood in the queue leading to the passport control officers at Barajas Airport in Madrid. Using the country code from a fax number that she had been provided, she had tried to book a flight to San Juan Diego. She had been told multiple times that due to the upcoming inauguration and resulting celebrations, all flights to San Juan Diego out of Madrid—and for that matter out of Spain—were completely booked. Finally, a helpful service agent suggested that she could fly to Bogotá, Colombia. There were much more frequent flights from there to nearby San Juan Diego. Her odds of getting a flight would be greatly improved. The young woman had concurred with the logic, and purchased the one-way ticket to Bogotá.
When she arrived at the front of the line, she bent forward to expose her orange lace bra as she handed over her passport. The officer opened the passport and flicked his eyes from her cleavage to the open pages and handed it back to her with a wink.
She winked back, and put away the passport belonging to her sister-in-law, who was twenty years older and twenty pounds heavier. She had the next nine hours to consider wheth
er the same ruse would work upon her arrival in Colombia.
*
Gina and Lenin lay on the floor in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, concealed under a blanket. They had hurriedly constructed the makeshift hideout when they had heard the container door open and multiple voices in the control room. When the gas turbine generator started, the voices were lost in the noise.
Eventually, Lenin peeled back the blanket. He crawled on his hands and knees to the door, carefully placing his ear against it. Gina took the remote control for the television and turned it on. There was a momentary blast of sound before Gina frantically hit mute.
The gunman winced when the blare from the bedroom’s television ripped through the earphones he was wearing. “What was that?” he demanded.
Dennis slammed his palm against the console. “Sorry, I hit the wrong button.”
The gunman looked around suspiciously and went to the studio door, opened it, turned the lights on, and looked around the small chamber. Finding nothing, he came back, sat down, and fixed his eyes back on the screen.
*
Father Serrano finished the prayer, cited the Holy Tribunal’s jurisdiction, and announced that the court was in session to adjudicate the case of the apostate Martín Ibarra Paz.
A canon lawyer addressed the court from somewhere behind Martín, speaking with humility and great deference to Father Serrano. He gave a detailed rundown of conversations he’d had with the defendant just before the proceedings, including those confirming the crypto-Judaism of Martín’s parents in Cuba. He revealed Martín’s description of a silver menorah dating back to the time of his great-great-great-grandparents, offering it as presumptive evidence.
The lawyer called upon Father Serrano and the tribunal to accept Martín’s heartfelt apology for his heresy, and pleaded on behalf of his client for the opportunity to publicly beg for God’s infinite mercy and forgiveness, repent, and to be allowed back into the fold of His congregation.
*
Gina studied the remote control and carefully flipped from one channel to the next. Many displayed live footage from around San Juan Diego.