Caught Fire

by Michael D. Wright

  The sanctuary was lit by the bright fires shining through the narrow stained glass windows. It smelled of dusty old spaces but also held a quiet mystique. After taking a quick look over his shoulder, John found the confessional booths and stepped inside the first one, slid the curtain closed and sat down on the wooden bench.

  John had seen countless cathedrals and confessionals on TV and in the movies but had never been inside of either in real life. Born into a religious family, he had been encouraged to attend a small Baptist church in his hometown of Monticello, Indiana up until the age of nine—when both of his parents had died in a tragic car accident. After that, church and God had become important only on Christmas and Easter. So being inside of a confessional seemed out of place. He felt like he was trespassing on God’s territory if he existed. And if he did, John felt God would be taking note and shaking his omnipotent head in disgust. The fact that he could feel the shape of the Sig Sauer at his lower back, sitting patiently in its holster, made him even more uncomfortable.

  He looked at the screen beside him and noticed how its latticework pattern provided complete privacy, but there was a flickering light on the other side. Inhaling deeply, John noticed the smell of candle wax. He kept his eyes on the screen and began to wonder what might happen if a priest appeared on the other side. Was he supposed to confess his sins? He didn’t even know how to start. Or maybe he’d say, sorry I just wanted a quiet place to meditate.

  There were too many questions…too many uncertainties at the moment. John was used to fluid situations during his military service and his experience working as a cybersecurity expert, but this was a whole new ballgame. He felt very much like a rookie.

  Within a few moments, he heard a slight groaning. John figured it was the door on the other side of the confessional. Then a shuffling sound came from behind the screen followed by a soft click as the door latch fell in place. A faint shadow appeared, and he could hear the sound of breathing. John’s pulse was swishing in his ears, but he said nothing and waited for the other person to initiate the conversation.

  “Hello, Captain Seal.”

  His breath hitched, the voice was a woman’s. “Hello,” he stammered as his confidence slipped away. He was uncomfortable as hell, knowing he would be taking orders from a woman. He didn’t know why he was so surprised. He had worked with many women in the military, yet he had just assumed his handler would be male. That thought in itself was cause for embarrassment. John rubbed his arm, inhaled slowly and worked to focus on the instructions he knew were coming.

  “Your first mission is of great importance for all of US security. We understand that this assignment came without an initial briefing. But the original agent tasked with this mission was killed in action two days ago. Your record is stellar. I have great confidence in you. Rest assured, if you complete this task without a hitch your career as a CIA agent will be promising.”

  “Thank you,” was all he could think to say. He now was beginning to realize what covert spying really was all about, not just a stereotyped situation slapped together by TV and movie producers. By that time, his heart was hammering madly in his chest, and his palms were sweating.

  This assignment is what you wanted; he reminded himself. You went out of your way to ask for this promotion. So pay attention, strive for perfection, and most of all don’t fuck this up!

  “We have a small window of time to complete this mission,” she explained. “Being your first assignment, are there any logistical questions?”

  She had a soft voice with no inflection in her tone. Based on his experience as a linguist John figured she had an accent she was working to disguise; one that might give her away. He felt mildly intimidated and was sure that was her intention. The monotoned voice in which she was speaking was the equivalent of a robot’s — cold and distant.

  “Who are you?” John probed for more answers.

  “You have no need to know.” Her voice was just as monotoned as before.

  “Okay. Well then, what are the parameters of the mission?”

  “That is to be revealed to you along the way. I don’t know all of the details yet myself because some of them are being planned in real-time based on the actions of others. This is a step-by-step assignment…complete one task then you’ll get instructions for the next.” She paused and leaned closer to the screen as if she was going to whisper. “By accepting this task, there’s no turning back. You must complete your mission by any means necessary. Once our meeting is over, you’re on your own until the assignment is complete. Do you understand, Captain?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. But…can you tell me anything? Are there lives in danger? Is it a simple pursue and capture job?”

  She sighed and hesitated before answering. “That has not been ascertained yet. Trust me when I tell you that you will be informed when there is a need to do so. All I’m authorized to reveal at this time is that Operation Gothic is a sensitive covert mission inside the Pandora Program. Once again, let me be clear. When an agent accepts their first mission and is chosen for the program, there is no turning back, no changing your mind. Any other questions?”

  John swallowed hard. His tongue was numb and unable to form a single word. He did have several questions, but they all seemed insignificant at that point. He wondered how long the assignment would take? When and how would he be paid? Was he to go back home to the US or remain in Barcelona when finished? After an uncomfortable pause, John rubbed the back of his neck and answered, “No more questions.”

  “Then we are set to begin. When I leave, you need to remain here inside the confessional for five minutes. If you leave too soon, your life will be in grave danger. Five minutes—to the second! If someone tries to enter…send them away at any cost. I don’t care if it’s a priest…”

  “And after five minutes?”

  “There will be a small white box sitting underneath the third pew to the right, just outside in the nave. Once you’ve read the instructions, you must destroy the paper. Burn it, tear it to shreds…whatever you choose. But there can be no evidence of this conversation.”

  John shook his head indicating that he understood, then realized she couldn’t see him. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What then?”

  “Follow what’s written. Best of luck, John. We’re all rooting for you.”

  John watched as the shadowy figure stood up and exited on the other side of the screen. He wanted to see who she was. Sitting still and waiting five minutes seemed more like five hours. Briefly, he thought of Maria back at the hotel room. The mental picture wasn’t the sort of thing to be musing about in a confessional, but he didn’t really want to stop replaying how she felt in his arms. If nothing else, it helped to pass the time.

  John counted down five minutes on his phone. Fortunately, no one else appeared. He figured most were preoccupied with the happy chaos and mild debauchery of the festival and would wait until the following day before attending confession. The festival reminded him in part of Mardi Gras and how the festivities of Fat Tuesday were followed by Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.

  When the timer dinged, he got to his feet, reached out for the curtain and froze there for a moment.

  That’s it, he thought. The lady just said it herself…there’s no turning back from this point on, even if you wanted to. This is where your life changes, John Seal.

  With a cautious sort of excitement in his stomach, John yanked the curtain open and stepped back into the sanctuary.

  Chapter Four

  The floorboards creaked under his footsteps. The sound not only reminded John the cathedral was ancient, but caused an eerie feeling he couldn’t ignore. Even the noise from the festival was muted while he walked down the aisle between the edge of the pews and the gray stone wall of the sanctuary. It made him feel he was intruding, and that God was watching him with great interest.

  John’s eyes darted around checking to see if he was still alone. Satisfied no one had come in, he counted until he l
ocated the third pew to his right and squatted down. Peering under the pew, he discovered a small gift-wrapped box tucked directly beside the kneeler. The box appeared as if it had been professionally wrapped. On top was a huge bow made of blood-red velvet ribbon.

  John grabbed it and then took a seat as if he was merely a parishioner who had come to pray. He unwrapped the paper slowly, trying to be quiet. He opened the box and found a folded note inside. It was written on old-school dot matrix paper, with perforations and holes along the edges. He felt it was odd that the instructions had been written on a type of paper that was decades-old, unable to remember the last time he had seen it in use. Middle school? Maybe even before.

  Unfolding the note, he found a message that was a bit more detailed than the others. John read the instructions in the colored light that spilled through a nearby stained glass window. After reading them in their entirety, he felt his chest tighten. He inhaled deeply, working not to become overwhelmed. So, to keep things simple, John only focused on the first task. After successfully completing that one, he would move on to the next.

  Visit the Sobrereria Obach. Look for a person wearing a hat with a red band.

  “Easy enough,” John whispered to himself. Since he was fluent in multiple languages, he knew that the Sobrereria Obach was likely a hat shop. Still, he had no idea where it was located, and the instructions had provided no timeframe. John assumed he must proceed now and finish as quickly as possible.

  He picked up the box and discarded wrapping paper, balling it up. Then he stuffed the instructions into his pocket and headed for the doors. Before stepping outside, he took a moment to breathe in the musty coolness of the cathedral. Then he glanced back toward the confessional, perhaps for any sign of the woman he had spoken to less than ten minutes before. Just as he expected, she had disappeared.

  Back outside, John felt he had been thrust into a blast furnace. To shield himself from the heat, he placed his forearm in front of his face. Then he stepped closer and tossed the box and wrapping paper into the flames. Pausing for a moment, John watched as the bow caught fire and melted away.

  Coughing from the smoke, John’s eyes began to water as he typed Sobrereria Obach into the GPS on the phone. It came up quickly, revealing that it was three blocks away. A slight smile appeared on his face, thankful he would be walking in the opposite direction, where the smoke was less dense.

  John moved forward with purpose, keeping his eyes and ears piqued for any signs of trouble. It was an instinct he had developed, thanks to his military training. He was the sort of guy that could walk into a room, stand at the door for a few seconds and identify vital pieces of information: the best escape routes, looming threats, and people who were potentially in distress.

  In his present environment where people were standing shoulder to shoulder, fires were burning, and there were distractions due to loud noises his senses were kept on high alert. Of course, he knew that ninety-nine percent of those enjoying the festival were having fun and detoxing from the stress of everyday life. But he also realized there was that one percent who used festivals for more devious purposes like theft, rape, kidnapping, and child trafficking.

  And what are you going to do if you see something like that happening? John asked himself. You’re on a mission. You can’t get sidetracked. If you want to be a spy, you must learn to switch gears.

  John had figured it would be a challenge transitioning from traditional military and cyber combat to a stealthy operative. He’d managed to make a reasonably flawless switch from combat controller to the stationary world of cybersecurity. But working as a covert agent out in the field was a different world altogether.

  So far, he had learned while following specific instructions without background information, left very little time to process the situation to make informed decisions. He felt more like an errand boy than a spy. Or a kid on a scavenger hunt. But John suspected things could change at the drop of a hat…no pun intended.

  As he approached the hat shop, the crowd had once again become more dense because there was a pair of fire-dancers in the middle of the street. They carried batons and flaming hoops, performing their act in the center of a small square that was boxed in with what looked like blazing palm fronds. He watched as the acrobats seamlessly tossed the batons and hoops back and forth. One man caught a flaming one around his neck and quickly dipped out before grasping it in his hand and starting a convoluted juggling act. The group whistled and cheered. John fought his way through them, before checking the time on his phone.

  Eight minutes had passed since he had found the box beneath the pew. Not bad, he thought. Even though he wasn’t sure exactly when he was expected to show up at the hat shop. He certainly didn’t want to take any longer than necessary.

  John managed to find an unclogged passage along the very edge of the street, passing under the canopies of businesses and veering around into the opening of alleyways. Before he knew it John found he had passed the shop and had to retrace his steps.

  The heat. The crowds…are disorienting.

  It was a good excuse, but John had never allowed himself to fall into the habit of using excuses.

  Not wanting to waste another second, John opened the door to the hat shop and stepped inside.

  Chapter Five

  Sobrereria Obach was a small, quaint shop with more hats on display than John could have ever imagined. There were driver’s caps, fedoras, cowboy hats, visors, baseball caps, and a variety of ornate hats for women. The sort that pretentious ladies often wore to the Kentucky Derby back in the States. There were half a dozen people looking over the shelves and displays. Two cashiers were busy at the counter, assisting customers. John reached into his pocket and felt the dot matrix paper there. He had committed the instructions to memory but found it easier to recall them while pinching the paper between his thumb and forefinger.

  Look for the person wearing a hat with a red band.

  The man in question was easy to spot. He was standing near the rear of the store, looking at a small display of fedoras that were identical to his own. The red band was more of a maroon color, wrapped around his dusty and battered hat.

  The next instruction on the paper had read: They’ll be carrying a small leather bag.

  The bag was easy to see, strapped around his shoulder. It looked a little feminine in John’s opinion. It wasn’t a satchel or a purse. Whatever it was, John felt a pang of uneasiness as he looked at it—mainly because the next instruction was going to be difficult. It also went against John’s moral compass.

  Take the bag.

  John exhaled audibly. He had not stolen anything in his life since the age of ten when he had nicked a pack of gum from the local convenient store. After analyzing the situation, he noticed there were a few avenues he could take. He could simply snatch the bag and make a run for it. Or he could throw a swift, hard right-handed jab, knocking the guy out cold and just grab it. John was confident he could do the job quickly, but the sound of the punch would likely catch the attention of at least one of the other customers. In other words, there was no way he was going to be able to do this without causing a scene.

  He clenched his fist, ready to throw the punch. It was his best course of action. There would be no struggle and experience had taught him that the sight of violence alone would make those in the store freeze in shock for at least two seconds.

  John closed in, now less than five feet away from his target. That’s when he was able to get a better look at the bag. Only…it wasn’t a bag at all. From the other side of the store, it appeared a strap was slung over the man’s shoulder. Now he saw the strap was part of a sling supporting his wounded arm. The so-called “bag” John had thought he had seen was a small attaché case.

  And an attaché case is not a bag, John thought. If I’m supposed to be looking for that, the instructions would have explicitly said “attaché case.” Also, the sling is pretty noticeable. If that were a clue, it would be indicated.

 
So, it was clear this wasn’t his guy.

  John again surveyed the store. Counting the cashiers and excluding himself, there were nine people in there. Five of them were wearing hats. Two had bands around them…only one (other than the man with the sling) of which was red. This one was a bright cardinal red, and the person wearing it was headed for the door.

  The hat was sitting on the head of a tall woman. It was made of straw, large but not ridiculously so. It seemed to mesh well with the blonde hair flowing down the lady’s back—the only part of her that John could see. He could also make out the distinct rectangular shape of a woman's accessory the type that might hold her credit cards and a tube of lipstick. The strap was looped around her left shoulder and appeared to be made of expensive — leather.

  As the lady made her exit, John noticed there were two men with her as well, fanned out to not seem too obvious that they were likely in her employ. One of the men was about three feet behind her; the second was off to one side, giving John the briefest of glances. Both men looked to be in great shape. The one closest to her seemed particularly burly. His neck was the size of a tree stump, and he had a hard, chiseled look on his face.

  Well, he thought, redirecting himself. I guess a well placed right hook isn’t an option anymore.

  The one thing working in his favor was that they were heading outside. If he stayed close behind taking care not to draw attention to himself, he knew without a doubt that he’d be able to slip through the two men—whom he assumed were bodyguards—and grab the prize. But snatching it away would be difficult. Women tended to tense-up in crowds, and tightly tuck their purses or bags next to them.