A Dark Perfection

by James, Mark

  Jessup winced, no further results.

  “Compile a list of possible U.S. and French assets that they could be heading towards,” Lucien said, “safe houses, active and inert, any disavowed actors, retired assets, all of it.”

  He considered, whispering to himself, “They could have elected north or west…so why southeast? It’s a conscious choice...”

  “Active or inactive assets?” Jessup asked.

  “Both. And I want drone surveillance over each location. Conduct a probability assessment from this point of contact southeastward and outwards and then cross-reference that with the asset list.”

  “That could be upwards of eighty locations,” Jessup noted. “And, sir, we only have access to three drone vehicles. Two remain grounded.”

  “That’s fine,” Lucien smiled. “Start with the most probable location and work outward. But I want those drones airborne. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jessup hung up the phone, somewhat taken aback. He’d never heard the director so…pleased.

  †

  They awoke the next morning rolled up together in the blankets and in front of the fire, now only embers. He kissed her and they moved into the kitchen, Lani still wrapped in the blanket and curled up sitting at the kitchen table as Jack started the eggs. Through the eggs and pancakes, they laughed and talked about nothing in particular. He asked about her dad; she asked about his friends back in Chicago. For a moment, it was their only world.

  Lani found a robe in an upstairs closet and started cleaning the dishes while Jack checked the laptop.

  “Here it is,” he said, “another message from Mac. They may have found another victim, another pattern.”

  Lani dried her hands and came over to the table to where Jack had turned the screen around. “Who’s the victim?” she asked, staring at the random scatter of kill marks.

  “Look there,” she said, “there are more marks here than with any of the other victims. Maybe that’s important. Maybe it’s an escalation by the killer. Anything else?”

  “Mac says the victim was an American, found killed in a hotel – no, a B&B – in Italy, in a bathtub.” Jack continued to scan the message. “He ends, saying no progress on the symbols by their analysts, but they’re working on it, will let us know if they come up with anything. No mention on the Croatian account encryption, which, of course, means they have nothing and don’t want to say it. Mac says the victim was a scientist working for Aero-Con Corp., a big defense contractor.”

  “I know who they are. They have a ton of contracts with the Navy down at Pearl Harbor. Now and then, we see one of their reps on base – dour, MBA types, very impressed with themselves. We had a case once and their sole function was to refer us to their lawyers. If Aero-Con is involved, there might be a tie-in with this victim and the weapon the killer uses. I mean, if anyone has developed some type of weapon that no one has ever heard of, it would be this group of spooks.”

  Jack thought aloud, “So, maybe our killer and Anderson knew each other. And maybe, for some reason, the killer needed to take Anderson out. Or Anderson knew something…maybe he was running, just like us. Maybe, maybe…”

  Jack began typing a response, telling Mac about the possible Aero-Con connection.

  “And that makes me wonder,” he said, “if Aero-Con is connected to any of our other victims – you know, the major who sees a lot of defense contracts going across his desk, and the ambassador, who, well, knows billions of tapped-in people in D.C.”

  “Alright, but what about Daniel Huff?” Lani asked. “We still don’t have a tie-in there.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Huff is the outlier, an enigma in all of this.”

  “Bring that new pattern up on the Florence victim,” Lani said. “I think I might have seen something.”

  She stared. “You said that the middle dot, the bigger one, is the killing strike, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So then, why the other marks? And why so many?”

  She thought back on what Jack had said: when looking for a hawk in a far off tree, look without trying to look… in that mindset, you tend to see more coming towards you…because you’re in a place where you can actually see more…

  And then she saw it, as if it had always been there, waiting for her.

  “Here,” she whispered, moving in front and typing in the commands as they both watched the image spring to life.

  Jack squinted, “Jesus, what in the hell do Nazis have to do with any of this?”

  †

  They didn’t know exactly when their contact, Johannes Engel, would return to his country house, only that Garneau had said sometime that evening. “He has no phones, no reception,” Garneau said. “You’ll have to wait for him.” They cleaned their plates and made the beds, folded away the blankets and put their luggage in the closets, returning the place to what it had been before they arrived; returning it to a quiet perfection.

  As they were about to enter the trailhead, she turned to look at it again. Yes, perfect. A painting couldn’t have been better. Someone had created it, from a dream, from a vision. It suddenly came to her: yes, it was someone’s end-road, someone’s last sanctuary.

  They found rubber boots in the barn and began walking through the pines, the sun still hazy behind the clouds and mist.

  “I used to think the same thing,” she said. “About the swastika symbol, I mean. But I was doing a term paper in high school and mom corrected me, saying that it didn’t always have an evil meaning.” Lani remembered her mother’s words, in that beautiful, lost voice: ‘symbols change through time, dear; what is evil in our time could be sacred a thousand years from now. Symbols are only words, only sounds, they only take their meanings from us…only from us.’

  “Look at that,” Jack said as they emerged from the woods, staring up the face of the small mountain, mists drifting down from the summit.

  “Ready?” she said, smiling as they both paused. At breakfast, they’d looked out the bay window and saw the mountain, beckoning.

  As they started to climb – past lichen-covered rocks, moss and blown grasses – they started talking about other things, the talk of symbols and orbs and their run towards freedom falling away as if left at the bottom, as if none of it could touch them up here.

  At the summit was a shallow, Zen-like pond, serene in its isolation. The mists made it feel as if they were in the clouds, the house gone below. She saw a lone bird fly past, nearly silent.

  They climbed down slower, some part of them wanting to stay in the clouds, in this near-winter silence. At the bottom and through the woods, she could smell the fir trees, spicy and rich, as he took her hand for a few steps and then let go. Behind the barn, they found a discarded tractor wheel, half in the ground like a relic and scraped the mud from their boots on the rim edge.

  Around the corner of the barn they were suddenly stopped.

  In the driveway was another car, a man in a trench coat leaning against it, his collar turned up against the cold and mist.

  †

  The earliest known swastika symbol appeared in the Ukraine over 10,000 years ago. Some say it was meant to represent a stork in flight.

  The word, swastika, originates from the ancient Sanskrit, meaning a lucky object, or that which leads to wellbeing.

  In 2500 B.C., the swastika appeared in Hinduism as the symbol of Shakti, representing the universe contained in the forefinger of a god. In ancient Persia, it stood for infinity and the renewal of creation. In present day India, one sect pours rice on the ground in front of their Hindu temples hoping that the shape will be seen by a god.

  Throughout history, various groups have drawn the swastika in different ways and from different angles: some rotating it, some right-faced, others left.

  Some scholars say that the four quadrants of the swastika form the basis of an ancient calendar, the same calendar that the Star of David eventually came to represent.
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br />   In 1400 A.D., the Akan tribe of Ghana used it in their gold artwork. In 1927, an anthropologist observed it on the dresses of Ashanti Empire servants.

  It has been hypothesized that the swastika emerges so often throughout history because when certain energy waves are passed across the brain’s cerebral cortex while a person is in an altered state of consciousness – say, when ancient shamans or oracles ingested hallucinogenic plants, or when saints entered mystic rapture – that a swirling swastika image appears, due to the way vision is mapped to certain quadrants in the brain.

  In 1920, the Nazi Party of Germany adopted it as their own, ensuring that it has come down to us as a symbol of anger and hate.

  Lambach Abbey, a Benedictine choir school in Austria – where Hitler attended as a boy – has a swastika symbol chiseled above a monastery portal, and another on a wall in the courtyard.

  35

  The elderly man in the driveway introduced himself as Johannes Engel. They shook hands, exchanging cordial words – the usual amongst strangers – and moved into the house. “We appreciate this, Mr. Engel. Thank you,” Jack said. Lani observed Jack shake the man’s hand longer than most; a silent message, she knew, only between men.

  For Lani, he appeared as she’d imagined – an elder Frenchman, silver-grey hair and imminently charming. If asked, most would have said a retired artist, or a writer. While his appearance was no façade, there was something more to him, below the charm. We all hide little parts of ourselves, the peccadilloes, the darker memories. With some, though, the vein reaches deeper, hidden from the world, from oneself. This house was here for a reason.

  She remembered her mother’s words, always a poet’s words, ‘Remember, an oasis can also be a mirage, an illusion. Thirst can make us that way…’

  At dinner, Engel insisted that they allow him to cook one of his favorites, saying it had been too long – creamed spinach and roasted potatoes, dried herbs from the garden. “I’ll make my apologies now,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m a recent vegetarian. I’ve been working on this quail recipe, well, fake quail. This is the newest version. It’s quite good, actually.”

  “That’s fine,” Lani smiled. “My mom was a vegan. Dad and I became experts on fake everything!”

  “So be it,” the Frenchman smiled back.

  Watching him cook was like watching a conductor with a symphony; an orchestration of knives and pans, dicing carrots for the roux so fast she could barely see, turning to check the heat under the sauce, turning it down imperceptibly and then over to the oven, all in fluid motion, all while entertaining them with the most charming stories. Then politely asking to hear theirs.

  “That’s amazing,” Lani said from the stool by the kitchen table where Jack was sitting. “Where did you learn to chop like that? Cooking school, or on your own?”

  He remembered the Way of the Knife: all of the blades balanced like samurai swords, each waiting for a master to find them. Yes, he had been to many schools, had been taught many dark arts. He remembered the locked case in the cabinet downstairs, in the locked room, all dusty now. He hadn’t seen the blades in years, now only shadows of his former self.

  “No, no,” he smiled, “No formal schools. I like to cook, that’s all. I’ve been alone for a while, picked it up along the way. And you? What, dear, do you like to do?”

  She laughed, “Well, I like to surf.”

  He turned from the sauce, “Ah, freedom…”

  She paused, “Yes, freedom. Lapping waves, drifting clouds, the mountains in the distance.”

  “And, the challenge of the waves too, correct? Each wave being unique in each moment, each a new possibility of challenge?”

  She smiled, like one would at an old memory, “It’s strange you say that. Out on the ocean, I’ve thought of it many times. My mom once wrote something, saying that each drop of water is always different, each cloud never the same, like the world is a moving canvas painted by God, and that God is always giving us a new painting each moment, always beautiful.”

  Sitting, he asked them to join hands. “If you could indulge this old man. As we grow older there arise these little surprises – like this vegetarianism, like this praying. I haven’t prayed in years, not since I was a child, now suddenly here I am, hands together. Perhaps, we all head back to the comfort of old ways...”

  They bowed their heads and he began, almost a whisper. “God – whatever you are – we thank you for this meal, for today and tomorrow and…for all of Lani’s clouds.”

  He looked up, smiling.

  “Beautiful words,” she said. “My father prays like that. Thank you.”

  “You’re certainly welcome, chère. Now, no further delay, let’s dig into this fake bird!”

  After dinner, Lani prepared coffee and carried over the crème brulees from the refrigerator. “Thank you,” Engel said, “old bones, you know. Sometimes I do too much.”

  “Engel?” she said, “That’s German, not French.”

  “Well, to be honest,” he said, taking a sip and pausing, “it’s not my real name. I’ve used many in my time, this one being the most recent. In life, some of us have changed names like others have changed hairdos. A name becomes exterior to oneself. One’s identity becomes, how does one say it, shuffled over time. You have to be aware of this, never let yourself forget. This Engel one, however, it has had a certain resilience to it. I think I’m just now getting used to it. A nice surprise.”

  “What are you hiding from?” Jack asked and Lani looked over, knowing that it was the question hanging in the room.

  “Succinctly put, Jack!” Engel laughed. “Who, what, why, the age-old questions…”

  “Well, let’s just say that in my former line of work one was apt to make enemies – some who were professionals and didn’t take things so personally, and others who, well, unfortunately did. It’s these others that one must look out for. You see, when you first start out – when you’re young and dashing and immortal – you don’t consider such things. And, of course, they don’t tell you.”

  “Intelligence work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Black ops?”

  “Well, not terribly black. Brown, maybe. We did what was necessary, what we thought was necessary. A small French unit, now disbanded, or renamed, what have you, the same old story. We worked with the Germans and Israelis, mostly. And, the Americans, of course. That’s how I met Henri. We started out as handlers running sources into and out of Kiev. We had the Marseilles check point.”

  Lani looked up from her cup. She and Jack stared at each other.

  “Ah, I see our Henri has omitted this salient fact. Yes, he was French Intelligence, five years.”

  “Why did he get out?” Jack asked.

  “Essentially, he didn’t take well to the lying. And, as you might guess, that can be a distinct handicap in a world of liars. Henri tries to make me feel better, saying his leaving wasn’t due to character, ethics, morality, our souls. Of course, we all know better. At his core, Henri is one of the ‘good guys.’ Meeting Elise, that was the difference. It changed him. Or, as I told him later, changed him back. It’s why we’ve stayed such close friends; as it were, my tether to the world.”

  She saved him, Lani thought. Saved him from his darker self.

  They moved into the living room and Engel started a fire. Lani kept her coffee and Jack accepted a cognac as they rested into the couches.

  “So, if I have this right,” Jack said, “it should be pretty straight forward: drive to the coast, no stops, straight through. You then meet up with your contact, this boat captain. You didn’t mention his name.”

  “No names, Jack. These friends – well, not friends, former associates – are now far out of the game, existing on the edges. They don’t give out names and you don’t want to know them. Money is all that talks here. When you exit the ferry, there will be another contact, one who will have secured the car. It should be in the lot, gassed up. After that, you are essentially on your own.”
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  “And, chère,” he said, turning to Lani, “while the clouds in Croatia may still be beautiful, there are many storms below. It’s a very dangerous place, and particularly now, after the negotiations have broken down: roving militias that are no more than pillaging thugs, the so-called resistance fighters, random artillery barrages, the refugees fleeing north in mass migrations, and many, many hungry people. Tonight, I would think, a small prayer would be in order.”

  He looked at Jack and then to Lani, cold knowledge in his eyes, “This is the way it is, my new friends, no use calling it anything else. You need to realize this, in order to get through it, to obtain your target.”

  Jack reached over and took Lani’s hand. “Understood,” he said. “We’re ready. Thanks again, Johannes, for your help.”

  Engel smiled, centuries of experience in his eyes. “For myself, I know that I will say a prayer every night until you are both safe.”

  †

  Diane Huff was alone in her living room finishing up her recording of the soap opera that she’d been watching for forty years, The Young and the Restless. Duane, her husband, hated the show and she always needed to sneak it in when he was out on another one of his endless errands. She reached for the remote and set down the glass of water, having forgotten to take a sip. Her grandchildren suddenly ran past, playing some made up game, oblivious, as children often are, to the dramas around them.

  She began to think back on the phone call she’d had last night with her daughter-in-law. How Jenny had finally called and how it had caught her off guard, about how she’d tried not to yell and finally couldn’t help herself. Jenny had mumbled something about having no choice. “We all have choices!” she’d yelled back. Before hanging up, Jenny had started to cry, “I’m trying to save my children…”

  Throughout the morning, Diane had said nothing to the children. Or, even to her husband. It would only make him darker, more withdrawn.