by Andrew Mayne
Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, sunburn, and a scraggly beard add up to an image that screams malnutrition. It’s not a man looking back at me. It’s some kind of zombie that keeps moving, not realizing that its body is already dead and the mind not far behind.
“You okay, Dr. Cray?”
“Theo. Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.
“Let me know if you need any help shaving. I’ve had practice lately.”
I’m too focused on my own condition to ask her what she means. What I do notice is that from the moment she stepped into my cell, never once has she given me a reproachful look. No pinching her nose or rolling down her window. Not one time did she let on what a horrifying sight I’ve become.
I think I’ve discovered another one of her misdirections. No matter how matter-of-fact or focused or hard-edged she appears, Jessica Blackwood possesses compassion.
An hour ago I was ready to die and couldn’t make myself care for anything in this world. The torture, the interrogations, the grinning police captain who liked to humiliate me as I lay on the floor writhing in pain . . . none of them could break me.
But in twenty minutes, this woman, who may be here to ask me questions and then kill me, has broken me.
For the first time since I watched those stars in the jungle and thought about drifting planets, I care about something.
I want to know what happens next.
CHAPTER TEN
TIME LAPSE
I gulp down a Pedialyte and devour a handful of crackers. After plucking the umpteenth louse from my thin beard, I decided to shave everything off, including my hair. Now the jeans and shirt Blackwood brought for me hang loose over my thin frame, accentuating my starving-prisoner look.
“I brought these,” she says, setting vials of different medications on the counter. “I was going to call in a doctor but thought you might want to make your own recommendations.”
“Thanks,” I reply as I start scanning labels and doing math in my head regarding my body weight. There’s also the question of what my liver can handle.
“Where have you been for the last five months?” asks Blackwood.
“Here. Well, Myanmar,” I reply.
“The whole time?”
“Yeah. Thereabouts. I think we may have been in parts of Thailand at times. The borders get kind of muddled.”
“What were you doing?” she asks.
That’s a complicated answer. I don’t know how much I care to tell her, let alone remember.
“I came here to vaccinate people.”
“I see. Without government approval?” she replies.
“Correct. There had been suspicion that their official vaccination program was using diluted or outdated vaccines on groups that they wanted to . . . minimize. In some cases, military personnel used WHO and UN uniforms to earn their trust.”
Blackwood thinks this over for a moment. “So, genocide?”
“I wouldn’t say that’s the wrong word. This is a more subtle way to do it. They have international organizations looking for trenches with bullet-ridden bodies. If a strain of cholera or COVID takes out twenty percent of the people, it’s hard to prove it was intentional.”
“Why only that many?” she asks.
“Trust me, if they could get away with more, they would. Part of what they’re trying to do is to displace people. If you kill off the elderly and wipe away the very young, people lose their roots and move on.”
“Move on to where?” she asks.
“Refugee camps on the border. Anywhere that there’s land or resources the government isn’t trying to sell to the Chinese or one of the proxies the US works with. But you didn’t come here to ask me about the human rights situation in this country.”
“The officials here say you’re the biggest human rights violator in Myanmar,” she replies.
“And yet they let you walk me out of there with just a sheet of paper. That seems pretty amazing . . . or unbelievable.”
“There’s more to it than that. Can anyone vouch for you being here for the last five months?”
“Nobody who’s alive.”
Her eyes drift to the crack in the window; she watches a car drive up the path and then make a turn. I now understand why she chose this location on the hill. She can see when anyone is approaching.
“What do you know about Michael Heywood?”
“The Warlock?” I reply. “I studied the case. What was public. Not much.”
“What was your takeaway?” she asks.
“I’ve encountered a lot of personality types. Each one is different, but they all share traits in common. Heywood?” I shake my head. “He’s an abhorrent personality among abhorrent personalities.”
“Some see him as a kind of leader. They look at him as either a messiah or an instrument for change,” she says, watching my reaction.
“Hitler had a pretty big fan club, and women sent Ted Bundy their panties. The self-destructive nature of people doesn’t surprise me. Back when I bothered to check my email, I’d get ravings from people who either thought one of the assholes I caught was innocent or I was the culprit in all the killings. There was even a podcast that tried to make that case. The troubling part was that even more people followed my Twitter feed when that theory got popular.”
“Did you frame those men?” asks Blackwood. I stare at her, not answering.
“It’s a simple question,” she says.
“It’s not. The answer is, but the question is not. You’re not a stupid person, so you already know the answer. I’m just curious what you think my reply would tell you. Or perhaps I just did.”
“Fair enough,” she replies.
“Good, then let’s talk about your lies, starting with you saying you’re not here to interrogate me. Clearly that’s what this is.”
She nods. “Correct. That wasn’t truthful.”
“All right. Why?”
“I can’t tell you that yet. What were my other lies?” She leans in, elbows on the table.
“You told me you were going to ask that woman for directions. You didn’t need directions.”
“That wasn’t a lie. I asked her for directions,” she replies.
“Fine, it was a misdirection, then. Your phone call was loud enough for me to hear, but you lied to whomever you were talking to, if anyone at all. Was that for my benefit or theirs?”
“Neither. Next question?”
“You helped put her bags onto the bus. I didn’t see you do anything, but I’m sure you did something. That was another misdirection, but clearly for my benefit. I’m sure nobody else was paying attention.”
“Observant, Dr. Cray. It appears you were a little more lucid than you let on,” she replies.
“Trust me, the hallucinations are real. And I know this is real. I know we’re here in this . . . safe house. But I’m not sure why we’re here or what we’re trying to keep safe from. You mentioned the embassy, but that’s in the other direction.”
“The embassy is being watched,” she says.
“I would assume. But who’s worried about the embassy being watched? Us or them?” I ask.
“Who is us?”
“The United States government,” I reply.
“So, you consider yourself on the side of the US government?”
This is an unusual question. Does she need me to explain my loyalty? “Most of it. There are certain elements within it that I might have a conflict with.”
Her posture changes slightly, and her right hand drops to her side, where she more than likely carries a sidearm. “What parts?”
“I was ambushed in the jungle. Two nights before, I saw a small speck flying over our camp. It came from and traveled back in the same direction as a US military installation in Thailand,” I explain.
“You think you were being spied on by the US government?” she asks.
“Observed. I think that intelligence found its way to Myanmar military officials.”
“You think the US gave up your l
ocation? Why? Why not just take you out directly?”
“Because I was irrelevant. Whoever told them didn’t do it because they wanted me dead. It was something to trade for. This country shares a rather large border with China. While we may not officially approve of China’s disregard for human rights, we still need favors from them. A little bit of innocuous intel can go a long way.”
“And you think that’s how they found you?” she asks.
“It’s the most likely scenario. At present, I’m more concerned with why you found me and how you managed to get me out of there. It seemed a little . . . easy.”
“It was easy. As for the reason, one explains the other. That document I showed them? The one that released you into my custody? It was real. While official relations are tense, Myanmar and the United States have an agreement when it comes to handling terrorists. Basically, they let us handle them. That’s why they let me take you.”
“Because I’m on a US terrorist list?”
“Because you’re on a list. They told Burmese officials they wanted to talk to you.”
I scoff. “That’s amusing. So, what am I, Al Qaeda’s number two?”
“No, Dr. Cray. I’m here to decide if you’re Michael Heywood’s number two.”
“Never met the guy, although I’m sure he’s an asshole. Now what? Do you arrest me anyway and take me to the embassy through a back route?”
“No, Dr. Cray. Th—”
“Theo.”
“No, Theo. There’s another part to this. Someone wanted you dead. That’s why they told the Myanmar military your location. The papers I used to take custody of you? I stole them from the men who are now arriving at the detention center. They’re about to find out that a woman already picked you up. The phone I planted on the bus will lead them away from here, but it won’t last for long.” She puts her hand to her ear again. “Damn.”
“What?”
“They split into two teams. One’s heading this way.” She jumps to her feet and shoves all the medicine into a backpack. “Put on your shoes.”
I follow her instructions and lace them up over my blistered feet. “Who’s coming? Who’s after me?”
“They’re called IDR. It’s a special operations group used to retrieve people and information in crisis situations,” she replies as she goes to the door.
“American?”
She nods.
“Then maybe I should talk to them. Why run?”
“Because whoever tried to have you killed in the jungle sent them here. They don’t realize it, but someone is pulling their strings. And his goal is to make sure you’re dead.”
I follow her out the door and down a back hallway leading to the opposite end of the building from where we entered. Overhead there’s the whoosh sound of a helicopter. I glance back past my shoulder and see a black chopper hovering near where we parked the car. The sound of police sirens rises in the distance.
“Who wants me dead?” I ask as we run down the back alley, ducking under clothes hanging from lines.
“If you’re not working with Heywood, then I’m pretty sure he wants you killed.”
The heavy footsteps of military-grade boots stomp down the stairwell we just left. Ahead of us I can see the lights of a police car and hear the wail of a siren. Something tells me that the local police and this IDR agency aren’t working together.
Blackwood motions for me to put my back to the alley wall. I do as she says and keep silent. If there’s a later, I’ll ask her why a man I never met would go to all this effort to make sure I was dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAN DOWN
Blackwood sidles along the alley wall to the corner, peering past the hanging sheets and rugs, trying to see where the police officers are. I stay back and watch a child look out from a window across the alley, waving to me. I’m about to wave back when I feel a tight grip around my wrist, and Blackwood pulls me closer as she steps into the small area beyond the laundry that’s shielding us.
I hear an angry voice yell at us in Burmese, and Jessica pushes me back into the alley. “Down,” she says, shoving me to the red clay earth.
In my weakened state, it doesn’t take much force for her to do so.
Bang. Bang.
Holes appear in the white sheets where we were standing a moment ago.
There’s a ping of a ricochet and the sound of something being hit, followed by an American voice screaming, “Fuck!”
I raise my head. Jessica shoves me back down. Bapbapbapbapbapbapbap.
Automatic gunfire tears through the air, followed by the sound of metal being punctured.
There’s more Burmese yelling—not yells of pain but anger.
I expect the sound of more machine-gun fire, but instead there’s a thud as a body hits the concrete near the stairs we just came down. The cop starts to yell for us to come out, clearly afraid to enter the alley blind.
“Let’s go,” says Blackwood.
“One second.” I hear a low gasping sound.
I pull away from her grip and run back to the stairs. A young man with a dark complexion wearing tactical pants, a T-shirt, and an armored vest is slumped on the ground, trying to keep the blood from gushing out of his leg.
I drop down beside him and press a palm hard against his thigh, trying to stem the flow of blood. He’s too shocked to react. “Hold on, friend,” I say to calm him.
Blackwood appears next to me and looks down. “Damn.”
“Hold his leg here,” I instruct her, guiding her hands to seal the wound.
I search the pockets of the man’s vest, dumping out two cell phones, wads of cash, magazines, knives, and, finally, medical supplies. Thankfully he’s got a bullet kit. I rip open the package and pull out the wadding designed to go into a wound and stop the bleeding. It’s a newer design that’s supposed to be safer than the ones used in the past.
“Hold him down,” I tell Blackwood.
She keeps the man still as I rip open his pant leg and jam the plug into the hole. My fingers find an exit wound on the other side. I tear open another package and seal that one as well.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the man yells as the shock wears off and he starts to feel the pain.
“Hold on, man,” I tell him. “My name’s Theo. Let me wrap your leg.”
“His friends will be here any minute,” says Blackwood.
“Good.”
“No. Not good. Any one of them is ready to put a bullet in you.”
I look over and notice she’s used her foot to kick the man’s machine gun away from us.
I didn’t catch when she did that.
“One more second.” I make the wrapping as tight as I can without stopping blood flow to the leg entirely. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Why?” asks the man.
I think he wants to know why I’m doing this.
“What’s your name?” asks Blackwood.
“Willets, Jay Willets, ma’am,” says the man slowly as he descends back into shock.
“Remember this moment. Never forget it. Got it? We didn’t have to come back for you. Next time our paths cross, you should have no trouble understanding who the good guys are.”
He gives a feeble nod, more from fear and shock than any logical point she made. “Let’s go,” she tells me.
“Keep pressure on it,” I tell Willets. “Make sure they X-ray it before they seal you up. The bullet may have hit bone, which could leave fragments.”
“Uh, okay,” he says faintly.
“You want to leave him a meal plan and set a follow-up appointment?” asks Blackwood as she pulls me to the opposite wall.
“I just—”
“I know. I get it. But we’ve got to get past Captain Trigger Finger ahead. Focus on that. Got it?”
“Yes.”
We keep tight to the wall until we come to a spot opposite of where we were shot at before. The shadow of the local cop shows through the linen as the sun sets behind him.
�
�How do you say ‘I surrender’?” whispers Blackwood.
“I don’t think we want to do that. They don’t treat women very—”
“No kidding. How do I say it?”
“I think it’s komainnko laatnaathkya maal,” I say in rough Burmese.
“Oh jeez. Screw that. I surrender!” she calls out in a voice that sounds more feminine than the commanding one she used to bark orders at me.
The cops yell back in Burmese.
“What are they saying?” she asks.
“Come out.”
“Wait here.”
Blackwood puts her hands up and steps forward through the linens. I watch her shadow as she approaches the two men.
“There’s a man with a gun back there,” she tells them.
One cop starts moving toward me while the other one fires his gun straight down the middle of the alley. Which is dumb for a multitude of reasons, but I don’t think it’s the time to point that out.
I duck and catch out of the corner of my eye a flurry of shadows as Jessica Blackwood’s knee connects with the jaw of the man kneeling to pat her down. As he falls, she spins around and kicks the second man so hard in the back of the head he tumbles forward into the linens, pulling them all down and exposing me.
“Help me grab him,” says Blackwood as she pulls the unconscious man at her feet away from the police car, then moves to the driver’s side door. I start to climb into the other side.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Uh, going with you?”
“Then stay put.” She reaches down and puts the car into neutral. “Help me push.”
I join her at the back as we give the car a shove and send it down the hill, where it coasts along for a half-mile journey to the bottom before crashing into a field.
She looks over her shoulder at the hotel. “The others are here. We gotta run.”
Blackwood takes a path between two adjacent buildings and through a narrow gap barely wide enough for our bodies as rats scurry away beneath our feet. As we hustle along, I hear the sound of boots and men whispering commands to one another in American English.