Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “Aren’t they stretching that notion a bit, Avery?”

  Avery bowed his head lower, smiling inside. “Director Tetsuo, you have my word my managers will notify you as soon as they have finished.”

  Yoshio Tetsuo eyes tightened. “Your subordinates violated clearly defined market boundaries and pursued local interests contrary to corporate guidelines.”

  “Director Tetsuo, borders in that region are historically fluid. It was an honest error—excusable to zeal. The parties involved were in need, but their petroleum requirements surpassed our initial projections. My agents are only interested in developing profitable opportunities for the Consortium. Ones, with all due respect, your managers failed to explore. Now those opportunities have been seized.”

  The older executive paused before continuing softly. “Manager Hsiang, it would be a shame to interrupt the upcoming Assembly’s schedule with an issue thought long concluded. Ukrainian commodities are an inconvenient and unworthy digression in the face of far more pressing matters, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’ve always found the Board receptive to initiative and maximum production and profitability,” Avery replied.

  Unblinking, Senior Director Tetsuo smiled. “Yes. Yes, indeed. My sincere apologies for disturbing you at your work.” The old head bowed slightly and his arm reached out on screen to cut the link. It paused halfway, and Yoshio Tatsuo looked up suddenly. “One further question if I may?”

  “Of course, Director Tetsuo.”

  “You know, of course, I administer all branches of the Sendai Research Department.” The older man lifted a small data pad up in front of him, squinting at it as if he found it difficult to read. “Oddly enough, I just received notice, as yet unconfirmed, that there has been an unauthorized deployment of Chishima products.” Yoshio Tetsuo looked back up at the screen. “Use of clone units is always a delicate matter under any circumstance; but these were not standard types.”

  Avery got the sudden impression the director was scrutinizing him through the vid-link. He feigned a look of mild surprise. “No? What type was deployed?”

  “According to Supervisor Shoei, three Infiltrator prototypes were authorized by Tier Two administrator codes. As a director, I can find no record of Board approval for clone deployment. Are you aware of any such requisitions within your division?”

  The face of Director Tetsuo floated in the middle of the screen, and for a moment, Avery Hsiang stopped breathing. Then he blinked and forced a smile. “No, sir, but I’ll look into it immediately. This is a serious matter. I understand those units are very promising, but still under development.”

  The senior executive nodded. “You are correct; they were not finalized, and it is a very serious matter. As I mentioned, the report needs to be verified before my office forwards it to the Board, so I am grateful for your assistance. Tetsuo, out.”

  The screen dimmed and disappeared into the desktop. He knows. The old bastard knows. I have to finish this quickly. Another chime startled him. It was his assistant, Kanang.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Hsiang? We just received a message from Barcelona, sir.”

  “And?”

  “They say there’s a meeting with the mercenaries in twelve hours, local time.”

  Avery Hsiang steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Excellent. Put me through to the clone cell immediately.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: STRONG MEDICINE

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 3:05 p.m. Day Three.

  Gibson whimpered as Carmen set another damp cloth on his head. It was burning, feverish, and his body trembled under her touch. She felt his skin with the back of her hand and dabbed a second cool towel on his face and neck.

  “Shhhh. Dr. Kalahani is coming with strong medicine right now. You’ll be all better soon, pequeño, I promise.”

  Gibson stirred. “I tried to go as fast as I could—”

  “Don’t you worry... you did good, very good. Hush now.”

  His eyes opened, bright with pain and questions. “It hurts. Why does it hurt so much?”

  “I don’t know, little one. But you are a brave boy—you can make it. The doctor will be here any second.”

  With that, the bedroom door opened and Ibram Kalahani slipped in. For a brief second, the two towering backs of Mopsy and Cottontail could be seen standing guard out in the hall. Ibram forced a wan smile at the boy, but gave Carmen a worried look.

  “How is he?” he asked.

  Carmen cupped Gibson’s cheeks in her rough brown hands. “Fine, fine. He is strong, this one. After all that work, he needs a bit of medicine and some rest. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.” She took two small white pills from the doctor and helped Gibson take a sip of water. “There you go. You’ll be all better soon.” She wiped his face again then looked back at the doctor. “Close the door behind you. I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”

  Ibram Kalahani was rooted in place, looking down at Gibson’s small form with something like sorrow, and not a bit of awe on his long face. “That was one of the most incredible things I’ve—” his voice choked, “I’ve ever seen.” He brushed at his eyes.

  “Of course it was,” Carmen tutted. “Gibson is special. Now enough standing around. You’re keeping him awake, staring at him like that. You can congratulate him later.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll let them know downstairs.”

  Carmen didn’t bother to reply, instead busying herself smoothing the sheets around Gibson’s shoulders. Ibram nodded and shut the door with a soft click.

  “Carmen?” Gibson whispered after a moment.

  “Yes, pequeño?”

  “When will the medicine work?” His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and a single tear trailed down the side of his face.

  Carmen brushed it away and changed the cloth on his forehead. Her hand lingered several seconds in silent prayer. “Soon. Just a few minutes and you’ll feel better. You lie still and let it work.” She took his hand in hers and bent over him. “I’m proud of you, Gibson. You know that? You weren’t afraid and you saved Devante’s life.”

  “You mean Poet9?”

  “Ha! I knew him before he started calling himself that. I met him when he wasn’t much older than you are right now, so I can call him by his real name.” Carmen smiled at a memory and patted the boy’s hand. “And believe me, when you’re older and some big hotshot, I’ll still call you Gibson, eh?”

  “Is Poet9, er, Devante really going to be all right?”

  “Yes, thanks to you. Dr. Kalahani says he’ll be back to normal in a couple days.”

  “I remember getting the cables in place,” Gibson said. “I could see them in my mind, but my headache came back. When I switched them on, there was pressure, and a flash of light in my head. After that I don’t remember.”

  “You fainted. Jace caught you, and Flopsy carried you upstairs. He likes you. All three of the boys do. Why, I had to kick them out of here to take care of you, they were so worried.” She smiled down at him. “You did it, pequeño.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad.”

  “And now it’s time you rest. I’m going to read to you. You listen and let the medicine do its work. OK?”

  Gibson yawned and blinked twice. “OK.”

  Carmen leaned over and pulled a well-worn Bible from the side table drawer. She opened at Psalm 139 and read aloud until Gibson fell asleep.

  ----------

  Poet9 was sitting up with his head between his knees and a bucket on the floor, groaning every thirty seconds or so.

  “You going to throw up again?” I asked, patting his back. I couldn’t believe how glad I was to listen to Poet9 puking.

  “Don’t think I have anything left. I’m heaving up my testicles now.”

  “Charming. Good to know your near-brush with death didn’t change your sense of humor. I’m glad you’re back.”

  “So am I. I think.�
� He wavered and let out another groan.

  Doc K had come back down to the cellar and was speaking to Tam. “Devante will be weak, dizzy for a while, but it’ll pass. I gave him something for motion sickness. He needs to keep food down, and rest.”

  “Rest? He’s been in a coma. That’ll have to do until we get back to Belfast. We’re out of time.”

  “Any strain—” the doctor started.

  “Ibram… every cop in Spain is looking for us and every hour we stay here puts the Garcías in more danger. Someone might have already noticed us. We’re meeting APAC tonight, then we’ll deliver our package and get the hell out of Barcelona.”

  Poet, head still hung down, raised his hand.

  “What?” Tam asked irritably.

  “So cyber-boy really saved the day?”

  Tam hesitated, and Ibram started speaking rapidly. “It was remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it. He interfaced in seconds, gaining complete simultaneous control over the unit. We never dreamed the technology could be so fast. There’s no doubt he saved your life.”

  “Well, that changes things up,” Poet9 said weakly.

  “No,” Tam said. “No, it doesn’t. Don’t even say that.”

  Alejo stepped forward. “Thanks for thinking of us, but I want to know what they’re going to do to Gibson.”

  “Don’t know, Al. Not my job description,” Tam said.

  “He saved Poet’s life. And you are going to hand him over?”

  “That’s what the contract says,” Tam answered quickly.

  “And then what?” Alejo asked. “You tell me he’s the asset. I see why now. I know your employers will crave what’s inside him, yet Ibram tells me he might be dying. What will they do to him?”

  Tam threw his hands up. “For God’s sake, Al, what am I, the psychic hotline? How should I know? They might treat him like a Saudi sheik. They might have a cure. We’re just the delivery guys, end of story.”

  “He’s a little boy. Someone should take care of him.”

  “We have taken care of him,” Tam retorted. “He’s alive and in one piece. Now it’s someone else’s job.”

  “You know what I mean. When they find out he’s sick, or he’s not useful to them anymore, they’ll throw him aside like a broken toy,” Alejo said.

  “What are you saying, Al? You got another idea?”

  “You could not deliver him,” Alejo said simply.

  “Oh right. Tell Asian Pacific I had him a second ago, but now I can’t find him? Then what, you and Carmen adopt him and live happily ever after?” Tam pointed out into the large cellar room. “You two going to start a sprawl orphanage now?”

  “If that’s what’s needed. God would provide,” Alejo countered evenly.

  “Al, I’m not changing my mind here. This is business. Now you going to take us to the Mosque tonight or not?” Tam said.

  “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

  “What other choice do I have?” Tam said. “No one’s going to say Eshu International dropped their side of a contract.”

  Alejo held Tam’s gaze, then sighed heavily. “Very well, then. I’ll take you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: BRIGHT TENSION SHIVERED

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs District. 6:57 p.m. Day Three.

  The meeting was to take place in an ancient Moorish mosque, down in the basement where they held illegal cage fights. There was no word on whom or what would be brawling that night, only that it was lucha al final, a fight to the finish.

  “Aren’t they all?” Tam muttered. No matter the headliners, this ranked as one of the strangest places for a corporate espionage tryst I’d ever heard of.

  Tam and I had strapped the ceramic Boker blades on under loose-fitting clothes, and Alejo had picked out a steel-capped oak walking stick from another trunk. Alejo led us through the streets, and he started limping more dramatically about two blocks from the mosque. After all, who’d deprive an old man of his cane? The three of us hadn’t been together in years, and I caught the edge of déjà vu as we came around the last corner.

  It was the golden hour, right before dusk, and the mosque’s dome was flaring blood red bronze as the sunset gleamed in the burnished, stretched reflection. People were streaming in from every quarter as the minaret speakers wailed and called to the faithful. Alejo didn’t know if anyone actually worshipped there anymore, or if the mullahs traded the space for a piece of the betting action. All he could say for sure was that the Turks had overseen this particular racket as long as anyone could recall. The mosque was cleaned and vacated for every match, and the fights always coincided with Muslim holy days. This was a hell of a long way from bingo and bake sales.

  We entered the main portal, no one greeting or guiding us, so we left our shoes on, and followed the queue through the building. As we passed the musalla prayer hall, Alejo translated the script chasing the underside circle of the dome.

  “Let those who would exchange the life of this world for the hereafter fight for the cause of God; whoever fights for the cause of God, whether he dies or triumphs, on him We shall bestow a rich recompense.”

  Alejo pointed with his cane. “Old timers say there was a Jihadist madrassa here once. They say some of the cells trained here actually fought in the Final Push.”

  “And now it’s an illegal blood pit,” I said. “Those Wahhabists sure know how to put the ‘fun’ in fundamentalist.” Alejo snickered, and Tam elbowed me in the ribs.

  “They also boast that the girl came from here; the one who took out the American Embassy in Paris,” Alejo said.

  Tam raised his eyebrows. “‘The Bride of Allah’ came from Barcelona?”

  “It’s what they say. Her name and picture is on a plaque on the east wall.”

  “Na’ilah the Nuke,” Tam snorted. “You can always get a fanatic to do something stupid.”

  That comment earned Tam glares from several men in the line. Not that he cared. It took three years, and a half a million dead to clean up Paris after her attack. The Jihadists counted on the decadent Western powers to cave in after playing the WMD card. They figured dead wrong. The whole world turned on them, and they were hunted down within a year. There had been some show trials in Brussels, but most of the terrorist cells and leadership had been executed on the spot in their caves like rabid dogs. Nothing delivers a “Guilty” verdict like a precision-guided cruise missile. Their “holy struggle” to return global civilization to the golden age of abject poverty and medieval superstition ended in that mushroom cloud.

  Looking around at the crumbling stonework, the graceful arches and slender pillars fading in the interior gloom, I couldn’t help get a little cynical myself. I caught Alejo looking at me sideways as we walked, a patient grin under his moustache. “Were you going to comment too?” he asked.

  I held up my hands. “No, no, he didn’t mean anything against you.”

  “I know what he meant.”

  I sighed. “Sorry, I know you’re religious.”

  “Jace, you’ve known us for years. You knew us before Christ came into our lives, and you’ve known us since. Jesus is different. He is not religion.”

  “So you’ve said. I know it worked for you two. You are different. You’ve certainly changed. But religion’s like nitroglycerine: handle it right and you can move mountains. Screw it up, and you’ll kill yourself and everyone around you. Na’ilah point in case. Not everyone’s the same, Al. Seems most people abuse it and do crazy things in the name of God. And that lowers the street cred, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, but the problem isn’t God. People will wrap their wickedness in anything they can find.” Alejo said. “None of that makes God any less real, or me any less responsible to Him.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “Hey. Don’t argue with an old man, eh?” He gave me a fast jab in the ribs with his cane. “See? Beware the ‘rod of correction’.” The crowd was walking faster now. “God is a reality, Jace. You’ll come around.
You and Tam are both too honest not to.”

  I had to laugh at that. “I never thought honesty was one of our strong points, Al. Considering our line of work.”

  “Well, we’ll have to work on that then, eh?”

  Tam spoke up. “Not a chance in hell, Al.”

  Alejo only grinned back.

  Eshu International and the Garcías had parted ways seven years earlier when they suddenly converted to Christianity in a major way. Before that, Alejo and Carmen would say they’d believed in God in a vague, general sense. Nothing definite or dogmatic. God was like stars at night: pretty to think about sometimes, but so far away He didn’t really matter. Then one night in southern Sudan something happened that changed everything for them.

  This was the same time the newly formed Islamic Republic was flexing their muscle, making their grab for the region. Saudi-backed paramilitary brigades were pouring across the Gulf of Aden to help the African people ‘transition’ to the new caliphate rule, and the Garcías had been turning a tidy profit by slipping past U.N. peacekeepers to smuggle arms to a rebel group near Eritrea. One night, as Alejo, Carmen, and several of their crew were on their way to swap ammo and AK-74s for diamonds, they came across a couple dozen schoolchildren fleeing down the highway, led by several nuns and a priest. Apparently, the Jihadists had just hit a series of Christian villages. Stopping to help, they packed the kids in on top of the crates and turned around to go back to their boat.

  They never spoke in detail about what happened next. They only said that the Mujahideen doubled back for the survivors and caught up with them on a stretch of road overlooking the shore. Whatever happened that night, they gave up smuggling, sold their boats and retired the next morning. They still keep in contact with the priest and some of the children.

  Carmen said prayer and God’s love were the only weapons she needed now. Alejo had told us she mentioned our names every night, asking God to watch over Eshu International. Personal attitude about religion aside, it’s hard to begrudge someone praying for you, and if there was one thing Tam and I did have faith in, it was that Alejo and Carmen were good people; the kind you’d want at your side when the pucker factor ratcheted up to ten. They’d never give us up. Their conversion had only made them better. And standing there in line that evening, hiding in a foreign city-slum, hunted by the police and corporate security, I found that realization very comforting.