by Chris Mooney
"Nervous. At breakfast Conway tried to talk Dixon out of skydiving."
"Obviously. And?"
"Dixon wouldn't back down. He wants to go through with it."
"Good for him. It's about time the boy came into his own." And over time Faust would show him how the same way he had taught Gunther.
"The equipment's all set up. You'll be able to watch everything in your office," Gunther said.
"I'll call you when we're ready to move."
"Gunther?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
"You worry too much."
"You can't replace the things you love deeply."
"I'll be careful," Gunther said and hung up.
Faust's mouth was still tingling from the special mouthwash he used to neutralize any lingering bacteria. He slid his tongue across the smooth texture of his upper lip and looked out the window. To pass the time, he imagined Raymond Bouchard lying crumpled at his feet, naked and trembling as he begged for his life, terrified to turn around and stare down at the yawning valley of bones.
Major Dixon was throwing up again. This time he was doing it outside, around the corner of the Snack Shack so the skydiving instructors wouldn't see him. His painfully thin body was hunched forward, one hand splayed against the chipped blue paint, the other fiercely gripping the rim of a stainless-steel water bubbler. His sweating face turned an unnatural shade of deep crimson as he hurled more undigested remnants of his breakfast against the ground and sprinkled his sneakers and the yellow pant legs of his jumper's suit.
"A minute," Dixon wheezed when he stopped gagging. His nasal voice was pure Texas and had a slight, high-pitched whine to it.
"Just give me a minute and I'll be fine, I promise."
Conway didn't say a word, just drank his coffee, his fourth cup. He was awake now, wired; behind it, he could feel his anger building, the way a car slowly warms up on a frigid New England winter morning.
He had tried talking Dix out of this skydiving nonsense at breakfast, but Dix didn't want to hear it. They were going today. End of discussion.
Very unlike Dixon.
Conway looked across the wide, sprawling burnt-green field. An hour and a half drive out of Austin, and now they were standing in some town that didn't deserve to have a name. The skydiving school and the Snack Shack were the only signs of civilization on the lonely stretch of highway. As Conway looked around his remote setting, the air hot and smelling of baked dirt and dead grass, he was gripped with an overwhelming feeling of isolation. Somewhere beyond that deep, hard blue sky a satellite was locked on them, watching and listening.
Come on, Pasha, call and tell me what the heirs going on.
"You were right, I shouldn't have had that big breakfast," Dixon said, and then straightened up, slowly. He took a mouthful of water, gargled and spit. When he was done, he placed his head in the bubbler. Cold water sluiced off his face and hair.
At five foot six, Dixon was a good six inches shorter than Con-way, and had a shallow chest with thin arms and legs that carried no muscle tone the kind of body more suited to a twelve-year-old boy than a thirty-two-year-old computer genius. His eyes were set deep in his skull and close together and wide, giving him a look of perpetual wonder. The cheerful demeanor he projected to the outside world masked the sadness of a man who realized he was invisible through no fault of his own.
Dixon used his sleeve to wipe down his face. He had become a pro at blowing his lunch. Conway had seen the surveillance tapes of Dixon throwing up at the office, at his condo Conway even knew about the most recent development, the blood. Dix had an ulcer.
Which made the job of trying to keep him sedated next to impossible.
Dix had suffered from panic attacks for a good part of his adult life, but it was only over the last few weeks, as today's meeting date drew closer, that the attacks intensified, becoming a daily occurrence that seemed to be inching him closer to having a nervous breakdown. Dixon usually kept it together at work, where his mind was focused on some bit of code or technical problem, but later, when he went home alone to his small condo, some disturbing word or image would worm its way into his mind and disrupt the normal, rational flow of his thoughts. He would stare off into space at an adversary only he could see, and within a matter of minutes his entire body would shake with fear, the alien voice that had taken over his mind convincing him that he was worthless and stupid that was why he had never had a girlfriend, why everyone laughed at him and made fun of him behind his back, and why his whole life would come apart at the seams the day he handed over the compact disc at the airport. He would be arrested and sentenced to a life in prison, being gang-raped in showers. The panic attacks only lasted several minutes, but the irrational thoughts lingered in his mind for hours. Conway had witnessed it firsthand.
Dixon's therapist wanted to put him on the antianxiety drug Paxil. Dix refused. Meds were for sickos, the sort of thing a loser used to keep it together. Besides, he did not have a problem. It was stress, that's all, nothing to worry about, it would all pass. He was in total control and had everything together.
Dixon removed his glasses from his pocket, put them on, and looked over at the Cessna parked on the runway. The oval lenses magnified the nervous intensity of his small, birdlike eyes.
"You throw up your first time?" he asked.
"No, but I thought I would." Conway saw an opening and tried again.
"Dix, if you're throwing up now, you'll do it again once we're in the plane."
"I'll be fine."
"A guy with a stomach condition shouldn't be going skydiving."
"A stomach condition?" Dixon snorted.
"I don't have a stomach condition, I just ate too much food, that's all. Indigestion and a little stress. No big deal."
"I've seen the empty bottles of Maalox, Dix."
Dixon's face tightened.
"I know about all those trips to the bathroom, I've smelled the mouthwash. You've been throwing up for weeks now."
Dixon scratched the corner of his eye, his tongue working the back of his molars.
"You saying I can't pull this off?"
"I'm not saying that," Conway said, choosing his tone and words with care.
"What I am saying is on the biggest day of your life, you don't suddenly decide to do something as risky as skydiving without a specific reason."
"You didn't have one."
"What are you talking about?"
"On the morning of your twenty-first birthday, your friend John Riley picked you up and didn't tell you where you were going. He just pulled right into the skydiving school. You had no idea."
Conway didn't remember telling Dix the story.
"Don't you remember? Last year, when Riley was in town, he told " "Why do you have to do this today?" Conway asked, again.
Dix rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb, his eyes focused on the runway where the pilot was loading gear into the plane.
"I'm your friend," Conway said.
"You can trust me."
"Your first time out? You told me when you jumped it was the most exhilarating experience you ever had. That when your feet hit the ground you felt like you were painted with magic, all confident, like you had the world by the balls." Dixon's gaze dropped to the ground, but he wouldn't look over at Conway.
"I never felt that way in my entire life."
Conway had his words ready. Don't. Let him have his moment or you'll push him away. He drank his coffee and waited.
"That's how I want to feel today," Dixon said.
"I want to jump out of that plane and shed my old skin."
"Then let's go tomorrow. Let's go to a bar and relax, and then we'll go to the airport and " "No," Dixon said. Something in Dixon's face changed.
"It has to be today."
Again with the urgency. Why?
"Dix, if something happens to you in the air and you can't make it to the airport, you can't call up our man and ask him to reschedule."
/> Conway could feel the anger creeping into his voice and didn't care.
"The deal will be off and then where will we be?"
"You know, I thought you, of all people, would be happy that I decided to do something like this." He had the wounded look of a man who had shared a deeply held secret only to have it ridiculed.
"Dixon, listen to me."
"No, you listen to me, Steve. I'm going to do this. You can stay here if you want, but I'm going to do this. Understand?"
"Dixon, look at the ground. You're throwing up blood."
"This conversation is over."
"No, it's not. You're going to listen " "End of discussion, Steve."
"Goddammit, Dixon, you're not making any sense."
"I said end of discussion!" Dixon stormed off to the bubbler.
The pilot and one of the jump instructors, Chris Evans, looked up in their direction, both of them staring.
Something's wrong.
What are you hiding, Dix?
Conway's pager vibrated against his belt. Had to be Pasha. Good.
Maybe she had figured out what the fuck was going on.
Conway left Dixon and walked behind the back of the Snack Shack and kicked open the bathroom door. Soft yellow blades of early morning sunlight poured in from the window on his left, reflecting off the scuffed gray-linoleum floor that was peeling in the corners and the chipped white walls decorated with graffiti, crudely drawn images of male and female genitalia, and names with phone numbers advertising blow jobs. He checked under the stall, found no one, and locked the door.
His pager, the cell phone that was in reality hooked up to a satellite, his Palm Pilot all of it was strapped to his belt under his yellow jumpsuit. He yanked the zipper down, removed the phone and then dialed the number displayed on the pager's screen. While he waited for the encryption technology to engage, he looked outside the screen window above the urinals and watched Dixon pace with his head down.
A beep as the encryption engaged, and then Pasha's voice burst on the line: "Back off. You're getting him worked up."
Dixon's Citizen's diver's watch, a gift from Conway, not only contained a transmitter and a hidden microphone that listened in on all of Dixon's conversations, the micro sensors placed in the watchband measured his pulse, which could be read by the IWAC surveillance team.
"Crank up his heartbeat any more and you'll launch him into a panic attack," Pasha said.
"Ease up. Now."
Conway kept his voice low and his eyes on the window.
"He's hiding something."
"Raymond went over this with you."
"And we're about to go over it again. I know Dixon. The guy calls in sick when he wakes up with a headache. Now he's outside throwing up blood and wants to go skydiving? Come on. We're missing a piece of the picture."
"Stephen, everyone at the school checks out. Name, pictures, everything. We ran Dixon's voice through the machines. He's not lying to you, he's not keeping anything from you."
"Then what's this stuff about him getting the idea for skydiving "
"From your friend John Riley. I pulled the tape. The whole conversation is there, only you were too drunk to remember."
"I'm not buying it."
Pasha sighed.
"It's an easy read, Stephen. Dixon's father had dreams that his only offspring was going to be a big football star that's why he stuck Dixon with that ridiculous name, Major. Only genetics had a different agenda. Dixon grew into this frail, awkward-looking weakling who has no interest or talent for football or any other sport, but what he does have is a brain that operates on a different plane than everyone else's. So what does the father do? Washes his hands of his son.
Classic family drama.
"Now you step into his life, you develop a friendship, Dixon starts to confide in you. He can't measure up in his father's eyes, so what does he do? Tries to measure up in your eyes, the only guy who's taken an interest in him, the only person who accepts him for who he really is and doesn't judge him.
"The problem is, Dixon can't compete. You're good-looking, you're in shape, you're social, and women find you interesting you're everything Dixon wants to be and can't. He's not going to back down because he doesn't want to look like a failure in your eyes. It's basic psychology, Stephen."
"You're giving me too much credit."
"Explain this: You come into Dixon's life and suddenly he's going to UT football games with you, taking an interest in the sport responsible for most of the pain in his early life. Why do you think that is? So he can patch up things between him and his father?"
"It's not that simple. Look " "Human behavior is simple. Take yourself. After the shooting you got back into the game. Why? To prove yourself to the team. And to me."
It was the second time today someone had questioned his professional judgment; the fact that it was now Pasha, his lover and confidant, who was testing him sparked his anger.
"I'm getting tired of the cheap analysis," he said.
"This gig is going south. Mark my words."
"I'm tired of baby-sitting. Go and do your job," Pasha said and hung up.
Conway pulled the phone away from his ear. His face burned. He ran his tongue over the edges of his bottom teeth and stared at the wad of chewing tobacco that someone had recently left in the sink.
The morning air was suddenly splintered by the sound of the Cessna's engines coming to life.
Conway walked to the window and looked outside. A thin, wiry man with spiked blond hair and a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth was jogging over to them: Chris Evans, Dixon's jump instructor and partner.
Conway went back outside and rejoined Dixon, who refused to look at him.
"Time for takeoff," Chris Evans said in that long, trademark Texas drawl. His eyes shifted down to the breakfast splatter on the ground.
A grin tugged on the corner of his mouth.
"You boys sure you're up for this?" he asked.
"I am," Dixon said and moved past Conway without a glance or word and trotted down the slope of grass that led to the runway. Evans watched after him, taking a long drag off his cigarette.
"Puking always happens the first time out," Evans said.
"Better he got it out now than when he's falling through the air. I can't tell you how many times that I've had jumpers spew all over me."
Evans turned to Conway.
"But I guess you've seen all that, since you've done this before. I see you packed your own chute."
"I had it in the car," Conway said, not really hearing himself.
Unconsciously, he scratched the scar on his collarbone.
Dix couldn't stay mad. Once he got to the plane's door, he turned around and, typical Dix, he smiled and motioned for Conway to join him.
Evans said, "Time's ticking, my brother. We got a full docket today.
You joining us or bowing out?"
Not right, it still doesn't feel right, goddammit.
Decision time, yes or no?
Conway boarded the plane.
Deep in the woods, less than half a mile away from the runway, Gunther Prad sat with his back against a tree, his hands folded across his lap, his entire body covered by a blanket that was in turn covered with actual leaves and tree branches. The blanket was critical in another way; it prevented a satellite from picking up his heat signature. As long as Gunther stayed under it, the CIA wouldn't know he was here.
Strapped across his shaved head was a pair of Viper binoculars. They were hooked into a specialized computer part of the army's MARS. system. The computer took what Gunther saw on his headset and transmitted the real-time images directly to the computer screen in Faust's Austin condo. From the open hole in the blanket, Gunther watched as Steve Conway, lead team member of the secret CIA unit called IWAC, boarded the small Cessna.
Gunther had wanted to break into Delburn, the fictitious consulting company back in Austin. All those computers hooked directly into the CIA; man, the plac
e was a gold mine just waiting to be tapped. It wouldn't take much to figure out a way to bypass the building's security. Once inside he could hack his way inside the company's computer network. Gunther was no script kiddie; he was a professional hacker. Bypassing the security and then raiding the databases to see what the CIA had on Angel Eyes, Gunther could do it blindfolded. After that, he would plant a sniffer program on the line that would record the group's passwords, activities, you name it, and then encrypt the info and bounce it all over the Internet so it couldn't be traced. A simple process, he had done it hundreds of times and not once had he got caught.
Faust wasn't interested.
Faust listened he always listened and sometimes paused to ask questions, but in the end had said no. Gunther knew better than to press for an explanation. He figured Faust already had someone working on the inside, maybe a mole within the CIA, someone with access to IWAC. Faust, Gunther knew, had contacts in all the major agencies.
Faust never mentioned who this CIA contact might be or if this person did, in fact, exist. That didn't mean he was trying to hide the truth.
He had been very up front with his reasons behind stealing the technology: "It's up to people like us to protect the good and the innocent. That's who we are, Gunther. That's what we're about. Always remember that."
Gunther trusted Faust. His debt to the man was a large one.
Gunther had been fourteen and homeless, forced to live on the streets of Prague after being kicked out of the house by his cunt of a mother, a goddamn whore. She was pretty for her age and always had a man in her bed. Sometimes late at night, when the groans cut his sleep, he would walk over to her bedroom and in the space between the opened door he would look inside the room full of candlelight and see his naked mother being straddled by a man, usually an older teenage boy (and sometimes, but not often, it was someone Gunther knew). Gunther's attention always drifted toward the men. He liked men. At least he thought he did.
Gunther sought refuge in the local gym around the corner from his house. The gym was this musty-smelling basement of gray paint and mirrors and pounding techno music and a locker room with showers that offered no privacy. Gunther begged the owner for a job and finally got one: working after school as a sort of janitor to keep the place clean.