The Traveler's Companion

by Chater, Christopher John

  “Took care of her?” Gibbons asked ominously.

  The man chuckled and said, “I mean I took her home.”

  Angela stood up gracefully, put her shoulders back to accentuate her breasts, and took the cup of coffee to the man standing in the doorway. She made sure to make eye contact and offer a warm smile. “Hello. We haven’t been properly introduced. My name’s Angela Iverson.”

  The man accepted the cup greedily and said, “You are striking!”

  Angela smiled coquettishly and said, “Please come in.” She lightly took him by the arm and escorted him to a chair at the conference table.

  “Who are you?” Gibbons asked. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

  “That’s kind of a long story,” the young man said. He squinted to look at Gibbons’s badge and then read it aloud: “Director Mark Gibbons.” He fell into a chair with a weary sigh. “I’m beat.”

  “And what is your name?” Iverson asked.

  “My name is C.C. Go,” he said, brushing off some imaginary lint from the arm of his coat.

  “C.C. Go is it? Got I.D.?” Gibbons asked.

  As the young man reached into his back pocket, Iverson asked him, “You said you lost your date here. Who were you referring to?”

  The intruder looked at Iverson’s badge. “Your name is Iverson, too? Like hers.”

  “Angela is my daughter,” Iverson said.

  “I didn’t realize the CIA was a family business,” C.C. Go said, smiling, amused by the idea. He handed a passport to Gibbons.

  Gibbons looked it over, sighed, and then asked, “Where is Melissa Fleming, Mister Go?” He closed the passport and set it on the table in front of him.

  “She’s at home resting,” Go said.

  “Resting? You realize she was in a coma when we found her?” Iverson asked.

  “She’s fine now,” Go said. “Can I have my passport back, please?”

  Reluctantly, Gibbons slid it over to him. He would’ve liked to check its authenticity.

  “Is she okay?” Angela asked. “We should probably have her looked at by a doctor.”

  “Yes, Mister Go. Why did you take her away? How did you take her away?” Gibbons asked.

  “I took her because she might not have ever come out of the coma under your care. No offense. Right now she’s in her apartment in Paris. When I left her, she said she was going to take a shower and then go to bed,” Go said.

  “You left her alone?” Angela asked.

  “She’s fine. Might have a hangover tomorrow, but otherwise she’s completely healthy,” Go said.

  “Paris, France?” Gibbons asked.

  “That’s right. I have the address if you want it,” Go said.

  “In a minute,” Gibbons said. “First I’d like you to explain how you got her to France and then came back here in just a few hours.”

  “I did it in less than a few hours—significantly less—but explaining how I did that would involve a very lengthy conversation,” Go said. “I think showing you would be easier than telling you. I’m not so keen on the science anyway.”

  A bolt of shock went through Iverson’s body. “The science?”

  “Show us what?” Gibbons asked.

  “You got the book, right?” Go asked. “What’d you think? Too ethereal? It’s hitting stores tomorrow morning, so any critiques would be greatly appreciated, albeit a little late.”

  “The book will be in stores tomorrow morning?” Iverson asked.

  C.C. Go looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight. So, yes, in about nine hours my book will be on the shelves.”

  “You published that thing?” Gibbons asked.

  “At great personal expense I had the book printed, and I’ve decided to give it away for free.”

  “Free?” Gibbons asked.

  “Are you building a church?” Angela asked.

  Go chuckled. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “We’re not exactly sure what to make of the book, Mister Go. Is it self-help? A philosophical treatise? Is it fiction or nonfiction?” Iverson asked.

  “Fiction, nonfiction. Such distinctions aren’t made in the imagination, man. My book deals with the inner need of all humans to be creative, both physically and mentally,” Go said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Gibbons asked. Gibbons wasn’t jiving with Go’s hipster vibe, like using “man” instead of “ma’am” or “sir.” Gibbons believed CIA officials deserved old-school respect.

  Iverson, however, suspected it was all an act. Mr. Go was enjoying messing with authority figures.

  “Why did Melissa come here, Mister Go?” Gibbons asked.

  “I assume because you were having her spy on me,” Go said matter-of-factly.

  “She told you she was a spy?” Gibbons asked.

  “She told everybody. She wasn’t very good at it, obviously. For future reference, socialites aren’t what they used to be. These days they’d do anything for celebrity.”

  “Did Melissa come here because she had something to tell us?” Gibbons asked.

  “Yes,” Go said.

  “Do you know what it was?”

  “I do,” Go said.

  “Mind telling us?” Gibbons snapped, annoyed with the banter.

  Iverson cringed. He feared Gibbons was overwhelming the young man with accusations and putting him on the defensive. Mr. Go’s airy attitude about kidnapping a girl from a CIA infirmary was obviously annoying Gibbons, but an interrogation wasn’t going to work. So far, Go was cooperating.

  “Sure,” Go said, taking a sip of coffee. “She wanted to tell you about the new book.”

  “Yes, the book. Tell us, Mister Go, what’s the electronic device attached to the inside cover for?” Iverson asked.

  “It’s for getting in the Zone. But yours won’t work until tomorrow morning. We’ll be activating the remotes right after a press conference around nine a.m. eastern standard time,” Go said. “It’s going to be amazing. You’ll see.”

  “What can we expect to happen when the devices are activated?” Iverson asked.

  Go sighed dramatically and said, “It’s gonna be insane. The Zone’s an incredible place. But I think you need to experience it for yourself, if you know what I mean. I can’t explain it. Like I said, it would be easier for me to show you. Truth is I could use the practice. You’d be my first group.”

  “Group? You’re going to bring people to this place you call the Zone?” Gibbons asked.

  “That’s right. And you are invited,” Go said.

  “I love a good party. Am I invited, too?” Angela asked.

  “Of course you are,” Go said after a sip of his coffee.

  Iverson could barely contain his excitement. Watching Angela engage a target was thrilling. He only wished he had his laptop so he could interface with her and see the brain scans. This kid’s hypothalamus was probably firing like a howitzer. Their connection was visceral. He was convinced most of Go’s bravado was to impress her.

  “Oh! I almost forgot. I have your badge,” Go reached into his blazer pocket. He took out Angela’s CIA identification and dangled it by the broken string before her.

  When she saw the badge her eyes went wide with shock. She gasped for air. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, she collapsed lifelessly in the chair and slid to the floor.

  Everyone in the room was stunned.

  Iverson pushed through the shock and rushed to her. He took her wrist. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her muscles were taut and trembling. The cruelty of the implant was that it released the cyanide in small dosages, giving the brain cell technology time to delete her entire database.

  Her pulse was weak. She was dying.

  “What the fuck?” Go asked in a distressed whisper.

  The self-destruct software never should have been initiated while in headquarters, but C.C. Go was outside of CIA authorization. As long as he had her badge, her identity was in jeopardy of being compromised.

  As Iverson held her, h
e felt her body go limp. Her face was ghostly white. Why was this triggering a torrent of memories of his wife’s passing? That blue patch on her brain scan . . . that smear. Now, again, he felt that same sense of helplessness. That same knot was wrenching at his gut. He wanted a cigarette badly.

  Blood began to fill the tear ducts of Angela’s eyes, welling up and turning her almond-colored irises to pomegranate. Tears of blood streamed down her cheeks. Foamy saliva oozed from the side of her mouth. The cyanide was destroying her synthetic central nervous system and choking every last cell of oxygen.

  C.C. Go quickly reached into his pocket and took out a palm-sized plastic box. He depressed a red button affixed to the center. The lights in the room flickered. He knelt beside Angela, placed a hand on her forehead, and closed his eyes.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Go told her.

  Slowly, like the Japanese paper flowers that bloom in water, Angela was becoming animated. A healthy blush was returning to her cheeks. Her eyes opened. She sat up and threw her arms around C.C. Go.

  “It’s okay,” Go said, patting her back.

  Iverson noticed that, despite the tears of blood that had dried on her face, her eyes were now clear and alert. He took out his penlight and waved it before her. Her pupils responded. It was the most relieved he had ever felt.

  “What happened?” Go asked, his chin resting on Angela’s shoulder. She seemed reluctant to let go of him.

  Iverson scrambled for a lie. “A seizure. She suffers from them occasionally.” He turned to Angela and caressed her arm. “Are you okay, Angela?”

  “I’ll be okay,” she said.

  Iverson assumed the software program had failed to release the entire dosage of cyanide. No other explanation could be drawn. She should have been destroyed.

  Go sighed in relief. “You’ll be as good as new in a minute.”

  Iverson helped her to a chair.

  “Anything’s possible in the Zone,” Go said happily. “Perfect health is only a thought away.”

  “The Zone?” Gibbons asked. “We’re in the Zone now?” He looked around with a befuddled expression. “Looks like the conference room to me.”

  “I created a replica of it. Thought it’d be more comfortable for you,” Go said.

  “What exactly is the Zone?” Angela asked.

  “Have you ever had a moment in life where things just seemed to work?” Go said. “A moment when you knew you could do no wrong. And then, suddenly, it was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. For a moment you had it. But what was it? Was it a state of mind . . . or a place? Can we earn it with rigorous concentration, or is it only given to us as an unexpected gift?”

  No one attempted to answer these questions, because a rehearsed tonality to his voice suggested audience participation was unnecessary.

  “What is the Zone?” Go continued, “First and foremost, it is the place of creation. This is where life as we know it was conceived.”

  “Here?” Gibbons asked, pointing a finger at the table.

  Go nodded.

  Angela turned to Iverson and said, “No service.”

  Iverson took out his cell phone. On the LCD display an icon of a satellite dish had a red line through it. “Where are we, Mister Go?”

  “That question demands a three dimensional answer I can’t give you. I like to think of this place as the womb of all creation,” Go said.

  “Sophia,” Angela said.

  Go smiled. “That’s right.”

  “Who’s Sophia?” Gibbons asked.

  “In the Gnostic tradition Sophia has the role of mother of the universe. She’s God’s co-creator of the material world,” Angela said.

  “Seemed fitting to dedicate my book to her,” Go said. He turned to Angela and handed her a long-stemmed rose. Iverson had no idea where it came from.

  “Are you feeling better?” Go asked.

  Angela smelled the rose and smiled. “Much better now, thank you.”

  “Enough of the parlor tricks, Go. What’s going on here?” Gibbons asked.

  “In reality, if a man wishes to make a box, he uses a saw to cut the wood and then nails or glues the pieces together. There’s an X factor to making the box that’s often left out. The carpenter cannot think of a triangle and create a rectangular box. The box is first created in his mind. The Zone works purely on that dynamic. Thought produces energy which produces matter,” Go said.

  Gibbons rolled his eyes. “Would you excuse us, please, Mister Go?”

  “Of course,” Go said.

  “We can go through this door, can’t we?” Gibbons asked patronizingly.

  Go closed his eyes and after a moment he said, “Now you can. I replicated the entire floor. Please forgive me if I’ve left something out. It’s been a long night.”

  Gibbons and Iverson walked down the hallway until they reached the break room door. Gibbons went in first and immediately went to a phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear and said, “Thing’s out. He must have cut the lines.”

  Iverson took out his cell phone. “Still no service.”

  “Is it possible to block satellite service?” Gibbons asked.

  “It’s possible. But blocking the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency’s satellite would be much more difficult and would set off about a million alarms. They’ve been monitoring anything and everything happening inside the United States since September 2001.”

  Iverson went to the coffee machine. No coffee had been made, so he searched the cabinets. After he found the grounds and the filters, he filled the pot with water from the sink. He poured the water into the reservoir and in a few seconds the smell of coffee was permeating the room.

  “He’s interesting. I’ll give him that,” Iverson said.

  “I just want to know how the hell he got in here,” Gibbons said. “I canceled Angela’s keycard when you reported it lost. So how the hell did he get through security?”

  Iverson shrugged.

  “How long does your girl take to get him going?” Gibbons asked.

  “How long? You mean to gain his trust?”

  “Whatever. We need results.”

  “The infatuation stage has already begun as far as I’m concerned. But I need to check the brain scans to be sure.”

  “And how long until she’s got him wrapped around her finger?”

  “Level Four is a long range application. It begins by activating the motivation and reward part of the brain. The subject feels euphoric and gets a strong urge to pursue intimacy. But neurophysiologic systems differentiate between sex and romantic love. Sexual urges can be seen in the hypothalamus, the portion of the brain that deals with basic desires, but romantic love shows up in the dorsal caudate body, a completely different region of the brain. It’s really about the amount of dopamine his brain produces while in her company. The more the better.”

  “So he just wants to screw her?” Gibbons asked.

  “It’s a delicate situation. If he senses something’s wrong, he could easily decide to resist.”

  “But after a few weeks . . . ?”

  “Romantic love is one of the most intense human experiences there is. The ventral tegmental region of the brain floods the caudate body with dopamine, as potent as any finely cut Colombian cocaine,” Iverson said.

  With a wide grin, Gibbons slammed a fist onto the counter. It caused a tremor that nearly knocked the coffeepot off the hot plate. “You may be on to something here, Iverson!”

  “It can all be seen in an fMRI. Angela has the imaging capability, but without interfacing with her, I have no idea what she’s seeing . . . unless she tells me, of course,” Iverson said.

  “She can see how his brain is reacting to her little overtures?” Gibbons asked.

  “That’s right. If you want to show your wife you really care, have Angela scan your brain while you’re looking at a picture of her. If you still love her, it’ll show up,” Iverson said.

  “For now he’s just intrigued. He doesn’t wa
nt to marry the thing?” Gibbons asked.

  “People differ, but generally pair bonding takes time. This is seen in the ventral pallidum portion of the basal ganglia, but activity doesn’t usually show up in this area until weeks after the initial meeting. Could even take a few months,” Iverson said.

  “A few months? He said that book hits stores tomorrow morning!” Gibbons said.

  “A lot of drivel about meditation. Let it come out!” Iverson turned to grab the handle of the pot, but it was gone. The whole pot. The coffee maker. Even the counter. Gone.

  Gibbons and Iverson looked around the room for the countertop and the coffee maker as if the items had simply been misplaced. They even looked in the cabinets beneath, thinking that maybe the ceramic slab had collapsed. No such luck.

  Baffled and alarmed, they left the break room and walked down the hall to the main lobby. Their plan was to contact security, but there was no sign of other personnel. The large fingernail-shaped receptionist’s desk usually had a receptionist at it, but she was now AWOL. Everyone was gone.

  Gibbons used his keycard to access the magneto lock of a frost-colored security door. When the LED light went green, he pushed it open. They entered the research wing. The rows of cubicles in this part of the office were usually alive with activity, but now it was a ghost town.

  Iverson immediately went to a desk, checked the contents of a drawer, and found it empty.

  “What’s in there?” Gibbons asked.

  “Nothing,” Iverson said. He tried the other drawers, but still didn’t find anything.

  “Maybe we’re not in Langley,” Gibbons said. “We were drugged and taken to a warehouse where they created a replica of the offices.”

  Iverson noticed the top desk drawer handle was gone. He assumed he had pulled it off, so he looked for it under the desk. “You see what happened to the drawer handle?”

  Then the entire desk was gone. One second it was there, the next it wasn’t. Iverson walked through the center of the room, feeling like he was demonstrating a magician’s trick.

  Shocked, both men began to slowly exit the office. From under the doorframe they watched as more of the decor began to fade away. The walls were suddenly saturated with blackness, islands of darkness devouring the wall art, the certificates on the wall, the printer, the copier, all suddenly gone.