by David Wood
“What do you want?” she repeated.
The light bobbed uncertainly, shifted away as if the man holding it was thinking about turning to flee.
“Answer me, damn it.”
She thought she heard him say something, not words, but the same nonsense chant she had heard before. “La-la-la-la…” Then the light shifted toward her again and she knew that the man was about to make a move. Jade threw an arm up to ward off the expected blow and charged toward the light.
The impact wasn’t as bad as she expected. Her shoulder caught a glancing blow to something relatively soft—probably the guy’s gut—and then she rebounded away like a pinball, striking the second man solidly.
The darkness concealed most of what happened, but the grunts of pain and sounds of bodies hitting the ground painted a vivid enough picture. There was a loud clank as one of the men dropped his pipe, and then a scuffling noise. The light bobbed and then went dim as the man holding it turned away and shone it back up the tunnel. Jade scrambled back to her feet, fists raised, but the light was moving away.
The men were fleeing.
Jade stared at the receding glow, too astounded at the unlikely victory to even think about what would happen next.
Another light flashed behind her. She whirled, fists still up but it was only Kellogg holding up his own mobile phone. “You…” He swallowed. “That was incredible.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Kellogg brought the phone close to his face. “No signal. We need to get out of here.”
“Right,” Jade’s answer was automatic but then she realized what Kellogg was trying to do. “Are you calling someone?”
“I should say so. I’m calling the police.”
She extended her hand, palm out. “No. No police.”
“In case you weren’t paying attention, we were just assaulted.”
“Yes, and in case you weren’t paying attention, I sent them packing. But until we know who’s behind it, we don’t trust anyone. Got it?”
Kellogg snorted. “Oh, it’s obvious who’s behind it.”
The only obvious thing about the attack, as far as Jade could tell, was that the perpetrators would eventually figure out that they had left the job unfinished. “No police,” she repeated. “Now come on. Let’s get out of here before they realize they just got their asses kicked by a girl.”
As she started forward, her toe struck the discarded metal pipe and sent it rolling down the tunnel. She scooped it up and hefted it in her right hand. “That’s more like it.” She half-expected Kellogg to lecture her about destroying fingerprint evidence but he thankfully remained silent.
With the cudgel held in both hands like a baseball bat, Jade moved back up the passage to the break in the wall of the fogou. There was no sign of the two men. She turned back to Kellogg. “Turn off your phone,” she whispered. “No light, and not a sound. But stay close.”
He nodded and then vanished along with the rest of the fogou when the screen went dark. Jade picked her way slowly through the breach, and then began walking stealthily, rolling her feet forward heel-to-toe with exaggerated slowness so as not to betray their presence. She strained her ears, listening for any noise that might indicate the two attackers were returning or lying in wait at the entrance to the chamber, but all she could hear was the sound of falling rain, growing louder with each step forward.
When she could just distinguish the outline of the tunnel mouth, the stormy night sky a faintly lighter shade of darkness than the subterranean depths, she stopped and listened for a full thirty seconds. It was the perfect place for an ambush. She leaned back until she felt Kellogg’s chest against her head. “Stay here,” she whispered.
Before he could reply, she leaped into motion, sprinting to the far end of the stone-lined trench and scrambling up the slick stone surface. If the men were waiting to attack, her best chance at surviving was a dynamic exit. She heaved herself onto the damp earth above ground, and rolled forward in a somersault twist that brought her up in a crouch facing back toward the fogou, the pipe held up and ready to parry any attack.
None came. The two men were long gone.
Jade took a few calming breaths before calling out to Kellogg. “All clear. Come on up.”
Kellogg emerged tentatively, then clambered out of the hole to join her. “Now will you let me call the police?”
“What did you mean when you said you knew who they were?”
Kellogg’s face was unreadable in the gloom. “Are you serious? Didn’t you hear what they were saying?”
“I was kind of preoccupied.”
“‘La ilaha illa’lla.’ It’s Arabic. ‘There is no god but God.’”
As he said it, Jade’s memory of the muttered words became crystal clear, and she knew he was correct. Their attackers had been reciting the shahadah, a statement of faith considered one of the pillars of Islam. Not only was the shahadah part of the five-times daily Muslim prayer ritual, but it was also reputedly the last words spoken by suicide bombers as a way of ensuring that their self-inflicted death would be counted as an act of martyrdom and not suicide, which was a damnable sin according to the Quran.
“Those men were Arabs,” Kellogg continued. “Just like the man that killed Mr. Roche. So, may I please call the police now?”
Jade felt an inexplicable confusion, as if knowing the truth about the motive behind the attack was somehow worse than ignorance or uncertainty. She had not wanted to believe the official version of Roche’s death because accepting it would mean admitting that she had badly misjudged Rafi’s character. Obviously, she had done exactly that.
“They’re going to ask what we were doing here,” she finally said. “They might even take the thumb drive with Roche’s book.”
She thought she saw him sag visibly in defeat, but in the darkness it was impossible to say. “I suppose you’re right.”
For some reason, postponing a conversation with the local constabulary elevated Jade’s mood by a few degrees. “I say we go somewhere safe, change clothes and get something to eat. I hear the haggis and titties at the Weston Tavern are simply to die for.”
Kellogg made a futile attempt to stifle his laughter.
“Then we’ll find a computer and plug this thing in,” Jade said, “and see if we can figure out what Roche discovered that’s worth killing over.”
ELEVEN
Unknown Location
Professor drifted on the edge of consciousness, sometimes rising to the surface just long enough to wonder where he was and what had happened, before sliding back down into the darkness. He caught disjointed bits of conversation, but none of it made any sense. He was not sure that the words being spoken were in English, though he had a vague sense of comprehending what was being said even as it slipped out of his memory. Each time it happened, he knew that it would not last. Brief moments of lucidity were a common occurrence when under the influence of anesthesia. When he was able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds, he knew he was finally coming up for good. The drug, whatever it was, had worn off.
Sousa dosed me. Why the hell did he do that?
The obvious answer, namely that there was a conspiracy to hide the truth about Flight 815’s fate and that Sousa was part of it would have made perfect sense if not for the fact that, up until the moment he felt the needle prick his skin, Professor had been prepared to accept the ATSB investigator’s explanation for the disappearance of Flight 815.
“What the hell…?” He sat up, winced as a wave of nausea rolled over him, and then looked around for something to help orient himself. There was nothing familiar at all about his surroundings.
He was in a windowless cube that might have been either a low-rent no-tell motel room or a jail cell—odds favored the latter. His head cleared after a few seconds and he took a chance on standing up. He steadied himself with one hand outstretched to the wall, and when he was sure that his legs would hold him up, he began walking toward the door. He expected the door to be
locked, but to his surprise, the doorknob turned and the door swung open without any resistance. He winced as bright sunlight flooded into the dim room, stinging his eyes for a moment. The world was a blur of green, which eventually resolved into a stand of evergreen trees.
Pine trees, but despite his comprehensive knowledge of minutia which included being able to recognize most plants on site, he couldn’t place the exact species. The air, which was cool and dry, offered no clue whatsoever as to where on earth he might be. He took a step through the door and turned a slow circle.
He was standing in front of a small plywood structure that reminded him of the backyard shed where his father had kept his tools. The structure appeared to have been built on the ground, without any sort of foundation. The cabin was not especially remarkable. What was remarkable however, was the fact that it was not the only one of its kind. In every direction, stretching all the way to the trees, lined up like soldiers in a formation, were dozens more just like it.
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Oz anymore,” he muttered.
“Good morning, neighbor.”
Professor whirled in the direction of the voice, which brought on another attack of vertigo that sent him reeling. He leaned against the plywood wall of the cabin, closing his eyes to keep the world from spinning.
“Hey, take it easy.” It was the same voice, a woman’s, speaking English with a faint Australian accent, but closer than before.
He opened his eyes and saw her approaching from the cabin to his right. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and straight black hair pulled back in a pragmatic pony tail. But for her accent, Professor would have guessed that she was Hispanic. She wore dark blue trousers and a white shirt with black epaulets crossed by three gold lines.
“That stuff they give you packs a fair wallop,” the woman said as she reached him. She allowed her hand to rest lightly on his shoulder. “I chundered for an hour straight when I woke up.”
“Woke up?” He gave her another look. “They drugged you, too?”
Her eyebrow shot up. “You’re a yank?’
“That’s right.” He stared back at her for a moment. “Who are you? And where am I?”
She returned the searching look for several long seconds, as if trying to decide whether to trust him with those answers. “Where, as near as I can reckon, is forty degrees north, and somewhere between one-twenty and one-thirty degrees east. It’s a lot harder to judge longitude without instruments.”
Professor blinked at her, too surprised by the fact that the woman had answered him with navigational coordinates to even think about the location those coordinates represented. Things stared clicking together. The uniform…navigation by dead-reckoning… mention of instruments….
“You’re a pilot.” Another click. “You’re from Flight 815. First officer…” He searched his memory. “Carrera? Oh my God. You’re alive.”
Despite everything else that had happened, Professor felt emotion welling up into his throat. He looked past the woman and saw that a small knot of people had gathered to watch the exchange.
“What happened to you?” He straightened, pushing off the wall, ignoring the resulting head rush. “You said you were drugged. Did someone hijack your plane?”
Click.
“Forty north… A hundred and twenty…” His breath caught in his throat. He glanced up at the midday sun but without any other way to orient himself, it was impossible to immediately confirm what she had just said. “North Korea?”
“Take it down a peg, friend.” The woman threw a nervous glance in the direction of the growing crowd, “That lot doesn’t know the map as well as you. I haven’t told them where we are… or where I think we are, anyway.”
“But you are First Officer Carrera? And those are the passengers?”
Carrera nodded. “Some of them. There’s forty-seven of us here. I don’t know about the rest.”
“What happened? Were you forced to fly here?” Professor’s mind was whirring like a computer hard drive. There was no way the plane could have made it all the way to North Korea without someone picking it up on radar or catching a transponder ping. That was why the conspiracy needed a highly placed asset like Sousa, to hide or falsify any data that might reveal what had really happened. He wondered how many others were involved in the cover-up.
Carrera shook her head. “No. I was drugged. Just like you. Woke up here. I don’t know where the plane is.”
“And you’ve been here the whole time? Three weeks?”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Three bloody weeks. I take it everyone thinks we’re dead?”
Her despondent tone finally dampened Professor’s excitement over the discovery. Not only had he learned the fate of the aircraft, but it seemed he would share it. “Who’s behind all this?” he asked in a more subdued tone. “Is it the North Koreans?”
Carrera pursed her lips for a moment. “Don’t think I caught your name, friend.”
“Pete. But everyone calls me ‘Professor.’”
“Seriously?” She shook her head, then pointed to the cabin adjoining the one he had awakened in. “Let’s talk in there. These people are still my responsibility and I’d rather not start a panic.”
The exterior of Carrera’s cabin was almost identical to his own, but in the short time she had occupied it, the flight officer had managed to personalize her space with cardboard boxes serving as makeshift tables, and soft drink cans repurposed as flower vases and drinking cups.
“Sorry,” she said as she caught him checking out the décor. “Haven’t figured out how to make furniture yet. Robinson Crusoe I’m not.” She motioned to an open box beside the bed which contained several parcels wrapped in brown plastic that Professor immediately recognized as military rations—MREs—though not the same brand used by the United States military. “Hungry?”
He picked up one of the prepackaged meals just long enough to verify that the label was printed in English. “Maybe later. This is what they’re feeding you?”
“Whatever else they’ve got planned for us, they aren’t going to let us starve.” She folded her arms across her chest. “So what’s your story, Pete? Why are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He realized that a confrontational tone was not going to win him any points, so he quickly added. “I came down here…to Sydney, I mean… to help with the search.”
He had no difficulty at all recounting the conversation with Sousa. It seemed like it had happened only a few minutes before, but as he replayed it in his head, he struggled to find some precursor to Sousa’s attack. Even with the benefit of hindsight, he could see no hint of treachery.
Carrera stared back appraisingly. “That’s it? You must have said something to make him suspicious.”
Professor shook his head. “I don’t think so. He had me convinced it was just a mechanical failure.”
“Maybe he thought you would keep looking. Ask the wrong person the right question and blow the whole thing wide open.” She blinked. “You weren’t part of the original search, then? What made you decide to look into it?”
“We got some intel indicating that your plane’s disappearance might have been aimed at a specific passenger. It was shaky, but I had to follow up on it.”
Carrera was incredulous. “You’re saying someone took my aircraft and everyone on it, just to get one guy? Who?”
“A Brit named Parrott. Ian Parrott.”
“Name doesn’t ring any bells. He’s not part of the group here. What’s so special about him?”
“He’s the publisher for a guy named Gerald Roche.” Carrera’s blank look indicated that she had not heard of him either. “Honestly, I can’t say for certain that Parrott is the reason for all this, but the coincidences are piling up.” Professor paused a beat. “Your turn. What happened up there? And who’s behind it?”
“I don’t know. We were flying, no problems, and then Seth put a needle in my neck.”
“Seth? That would b
e Seth Norris, the pilot?”
“The captain,” she corrected. “Only…”
Professor waited several seconds for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he prompted. “Only what?”
“Well, it’s going to sound crazy but… He was different.”
“Like he was being coerced?”
“No, not at all. He was cool as ice. But he just didn’t seem like the Seth Norris I know.”
Professor turned this revelation over in his head but could not immediately see how it fit with everything else. “What happened then?”
“Woke up right here. Been here ever since.”
“No one told you why?”
“No one told us anything. Haven’t seen the buggers. One guy talks to us on the public address. We call him ‘Boss.’ Don’t recognize the voice, but he doesn’t sound Korean if you know what I mean.”
“Talks to you? What does he say?”
“Mostly just reminds us not to make trouble. This morning he told us all to go inside and stay put. That’s what happens when they bring in a food delivery, but we weren’t due. When I came out, I saw you.”
Professor mulled this over as well. “Is there a perimeter? A fence or wall around this place?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t gone looking. That would be the kind of trouble Boss told us not to make.” She squinted at him. “I hope you’re not thinking about making any trouble.”
“I’m not going to sit here and do nothing.”
“The safety of the people here is my responsibility. I won’t let you put them in danger.”
“They’re already in danger. They aren’t holding you as hostages. The world thinks you’re all dead, and they’re obviously content to leave it that way. If the North Koreans or some other government is behind this, then they’re damn sure not going to want anyone outside to know.”
Carrera’s nostrils flared angrily. “You’ll get us all killed.”
“I don’t think so. They want something from you all. That’s the only reason you’re still alive, but as soon as they get it, they won’t have any further use for you. Ergo, we need to make our move sooner rather than later.”