The Snare

by David A Ogunde

  With these thoughts in his head, James, swelling with satisfaction in his past work and anticipation for what his future work at his new job at the world-renowned Global Economic Dynamics could bring, a humble smile animated his face and he politely changed the subject.

  “Now tell me, Dr. Kakoaba,” he said, holding a slim, silver bracelet up to the sunlight. “Which of these bangles should I choose? Sarah and Tolu are getting their microbit implanted today, and I wanted to give them a gift.”

  “Glad to hear it! Your beautiful wife and daughter deserve all the health and happiness in the world. You know, it’s funny to think. When I was a boy I never would have imagined that technology could come this far, and that I would be a part of it.” Dr. Kakoaba raised his hand and pointedly looked at the small mound on the back of it—his microbit embedded under the skin. “Simply amazing!”

  James agreed, quickly glimpsing at the bump on the back of his own hand. He and Dr. Kakoaba had been the first volunteers to receive the microbit implant—CellSens’ newest technology—a few months before. Admittedly, James had been somewhat wary of the implant at first. But his scruples had long disappeared since the implant had not only proven successful in preventing harmful bacteria and viruses from having a hold on his body, but it also served as a convenient and effective repository of information concerning his identity, job classification, home address, and even banking details. Though he had become used to it by now, it still felt somewhat like a novelty to buy a soda in the local CellSens office simply by swiping the back of his hand in front of a microbit reader on the dispenser.

  CellSens’ goal, of course, was to implement the microbit system throughout the entire region, but it was proving a slower process than they had initially anticipated. Just organizing the setting up of enough stations to inject a microbit into each citizen had taken James several months, not to mention the overseeing of building and securing the government databases in which every citizen’s information would be stored. It was decided that these databases were to be located abroad as the electricity and technical manpower were not yet reliably available in this remote region. However, it had been an exciting and rewarding work, and James suddenly felt a tinge of regret that he had chosen not to be the one to carry it through to completion. CellSens was doing amazing work here, he reminded himself; but Global Economics Dynamic had more potential to impact the world in a relatively shorter time.

  “Here, my friend,” said Dr. Kakoaba, interrupting James’ thoughts. “Choose these.” He picked up two semi-circle silver bracelets with delicate etchings representing land and sea. “Allow me the honor of purchasing them for you. Call it my going-away gift to your family.”

  “I accept, and the honor is mine,” replied James. “I am going to miss you.”

  “I too,” returned Dr. Kakoaba, handing over the right amount of cash to the vendor. “Just promise not to stay away forever.”

  Chapter 3

  Frank Grimes of London’s famous alternate-news publication Abby’s Post considered himself a decent human being. He only lied when necessary; never intentionally harmed anyone; threw his rubbish into the right bins; and regularly gave a dollar or two to the charity collectors around Christmastime. Though never feeling compelled to settle down with a missus (due of course to the fact that no woman of his preferred caliber had ever come across his path, not because all the women he met felt the same way), Frank had been able to find a measure of contentment in his quaint life through its simplicity and predictability.

  His routine usually began at 6:46 every morning when he rose (except on weekends when he allowed himself the liberty of an extra half hour laying in bed). He would don one of his worn but comfortable office suits by 6:58 and, coffee mug in hand, rigorously peruse the morning paper until 7:13. Then, trading in his coffee mug for his chestnut-colored faux leather briefcase, Frank headed out the door of his modest red-brick house.

  On this particularly fine morning, Frank, as usual, glanced around his neat little yard to make sure no one was watching him, then turned his door lock with a satisfying click and slipped the key under a weathered, frowning bulldog with a chipped nose which sat upon the stoop. As today was Wednesday, Frank passed his car port and instead walked the two blocks, and down to the bus stop. On his last doctor’s appointment, Frank’s physician had strongly urged him to start engaging in some sort of physical exercise for his health’s sake. Having never gone out of his way to exercise in his entire life and now anxious about what might be the consequences of that negligence, Frank had decided to make up for it by travelling to and from his workplace by commercial bus, and not in his car, two days a week. That way, his walks to and from the bus stops would satisfy his need for a little exercise without causing him any discomfort or inconvenience.

  Once settled comfortably in one of his favorite seats, Frank watched the bus stop roll out of view, then pulled his briefcase onto his lap and flipped it open. He pulled out a mini notepad and fingered through the smudged pages till he found what he was looking for. At the top of the page was simply written “The List,” and beneath were several story suggestions he had picked up the previous day. After taking out a pencil and licking its graphite tip out of habit, Frank read the first item to himself in a growly mumble:

  Broke banker faked suicide to collect insurance money on himself to pay gambling debts

  “Hmm…not famous enough for anyone to care,” Frank muttered, drawing a thick line through the words and reading the next entry:

  100-year-old woman discovers long-lost twin sister through social media and journeys to America to reunite

  “Too boring,” the journalist commented aloud. “It would have been better if you’d died on the way. Sympathy sells better than success!” Another strikethrough.

  “Hm, this looks interesting…‘Classified source claims continued war in the Middle East due to battles over the control of spiritual ley lines running through the regions.’”

  Frank circled that one as a possibility. Ley lines were currently back in season in the conspiratorial rings—not his favorite audience, but a large enough community to make publishing the story worthwhile.

  He was browsing the list’s next item—“Rigula virus outbreak theories”— when a man in a grey hoodie and dirty jeans took a seat quietly opposite him across. Usually, Frank didn’t take a second glance at fellow passengers, but something about this stranger caught his attention. Trying to act as if everything was normal, Frank speedily moved his gaze as inconspicuously as he could from his notebook to the man’s dark brown visage and back several times. To his great dismay, he noticed that the stranger, though looking through the window, was also intermittently peering at him from out of the corner of his eye.

  All at once, Frank felt extremely uncomfortable, sure that something was about to happen—something bad—and that it was going to involve him. His experience from his years as a journalist urgently prompted him to make a covert but important move. Get evidence. Making a show of rummaging for whatever papers in the large, open briefcase covering his lap, Frank managed to stealthily get his phone ready to take a picture. He waited until his peripheral vision told him that the stranger was looking out through the window. Then he quickly stuck the corner of his cell phone around the edge of the briefcase in what he hoped was the general direction of the man’s face and discreetly took several pictures. The man’s head suddenly turned and looked right at him. Frank let the phone drop in the papers, sat up taller in his seat, and shut his briefcase as naturally as he could before slowly pulling it up close to his large, barrel chest. Thankfully, the bus was almost at his destination, and Frank was poised to make a quick getaway before this pick-pocket, or whatever he was, could snatch anything off him.

  At the first squeal of the brakes, he shot to his feet and tried to step into the aisle, but the stranger was faster. Frank was blocked. His body tensed; he was contemplating using his briefcase as a battering ram when the stranger suddenly spoke.

  �
�Frank Grimes.” The man uttered his name confidently, obviously certain of the identity of the person he was addressing. Taken off guard, Frank’s heart began to race and a drip of sweat appeared between the folds of his wide forehead.

  “Who are you?” Frank demanded in as unshaken a voice as he could muster.

  “I have some information,” the man stated. “Something the world needs to know. And I need your help.”

  Chapter 4

  The elevator seemed unusually full today as Frank squeezed into a last-second spot. The closed space and warm bodies jammed into it made him feel all the more irritable. In all his years as a reporter, Frank had never felt as ruffled as he did now. The nerve of some people! Tracking him down on his bus ride to work, even! Okay, he understood that his prestigious position as a renowned journalist did mark him as a target for people who were looking for a platform. Everyone had information about something, and everyone felt entitled to share it with the world. But accosting, no, hunting him down and demanding his help in publishing another “kook” story was crossing the line. And even if that fact wasn’t enough to make Frank reject the guy outright, the rudeness of the man certainly would. In his minds, he mused:

  First, he scares me half to death with his sneaky manner, then blocks me from getting off the bus, then claims he has no time to explain and shoves a crumpled paper into my hand before running away like a frightened kid!

  Frank looked down at the ball of paper he still held in his clenched fist, contemplating just tossing it away as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. But by the time he reached his floor, Frank’s curiosity had overwhelmed his anger, and he made his way quickly to his office and shut the door. Though not much bigger than a cubicle, the office was at least private. After setting his briefcase on the floor, he released his clenched fist, stretched out the paper and began to read. At first his brow furrowed, and then his jaw dropped. And as he re-read it, the hue of his face became as white as the document he was holding. Quicker than he had possibly ever moved in his life, Frank squeezed himself between the wall and the corner of his desk to get to his chair, and snapped on the computer. It seemed to take forever to warm up, during which time he drummed his fingers on the desk and urged the machine to hurry up.

  The home screen finally lit up, and Frank wasted no time in clicking into his email. He was halfway through composing a message when he suddenly stopped, arrested by an inner urge to rethink this rash action. Feeling off-tilter and more paranoid than usual, Frank quickly glanced around the tiny office, making sure that he was indeed the only one in the closet-of-a-room. Satisfied, he held the crinkled paper up to his face and again read the astounding document. Could this be some kind of prank? After all, it was very easy for anybody to make up and print whatever they wanted to these days, even things that looked official.

  In an effort to try to find some merit of credibility, he grabbed his phone from the briefcase and studied the pictures he had taken on the bus. They were a little blurred and quite off-center, but, Frank ascertained, they would hold up in a courtroom if anything came to that. He studied the best image—the face and the clothes and the way the stranger was sitting. But he could read nothing. Was he an urchin playing a joke? Was he a whistleblower on the run? Could he be trusted? Frank sighed. It was a tough call. If the document this stranger gave him was a fake, pursuing any information written here - putting anything here for public consumption - could cost him his job and probably get him sued for libel. But, if the facts in this document were, indeed, true, he may have just come across the biggest story of his entire career.

  Fortunately, Frank was able to remind himself in the midst of his frustration that he was not an amateur reporter and knew that to dive off one way or the other right now was too risky. He would have to get more information. Though every fiber of his being protested at the thought of how unpredictable he was about to be, Frank made up his mind to break the security of his normal routine and follow the hand-written instructions which seemed to have been hurriedly scrawled at the bottom of the document in his hand:

  Meet me at New Oxford St

  Stop H -7:00

  Tonight!

  Chapter 5

  The thick, sheeting drops of a London rainstorm were pouring down so hard that Frank could hardly see anything out of the window of the pub he was sitting in. He took another swig of his drink, looked at his watch, and reprimanded himself for the 100th time for even being there. Tossed to and fro all day in turmoil between his restlessness and misgivings, he had left the office early and taken a cab home. After a shower and change of clothes, he had felt a little better and was able to think a little clearer:

  He definitely wasn’t going to go.

  If this, no doubt, highly secretive and sensitive document was, indeed, true to its claim, meeting with the man who gave it to him could put him in a very dangerous position. There was also the possibility, Frank thought fearfully, that this whole thing might be a hoax intended to draw him out. Could it be that he was being set up to be entangled with a gang of toughs lying in wait to rob him, steal his identity, or worse, hold him for a ransom in hopes of wheedling a huge sum of money from the newspaper? He followed his imagination for a moment, considering whether or not Abby’s Post would be willing to pay a ransom for him, and a possibility that would be flattering himself that they would. Even so, he surmised, being kidnapped would probably prove to be dreadfully uncomfortable and not worth the risk. Yes, he had agreed with himself, it was best to just stay here and forget that the strange events of the morning had ever happened. Having made that decision, Frank tossed the ball of paper into his empty fire grate, and then set about making himself something to eat. The sooner he could take his mind off this whole matter, the quicker he could get back to the simple comforts of his ordinary life.

  But no matter how hard he tried, he had been unable to rid himself of his curiosity and anxiety, and the delicious plate of eggs on toast remained untouched as he paced back and forth through the house in consternation. Finally, at 5:43 p.m., Frank had come up with a brilliant plan. He would drive down to Shaftsbury Avenue and occupy a little pub he knew of that was right across the street from this “Oxford St. Stop H” of the instructions. There he would order a draft or two to calm his nerves and keep an eye out for any unusual activity surrounding the bus stop.

  It had seemed a perfect plan until the setting sun brought down the rain, cascading so thickly that he couldn’t see anything ahead of him except the blurred lights of moving traffic and umbrella-wielding shadows. This hiccup in his plan caused Frank’s worry to rise to almost a panic, and several times he ordered himself to just go home and not bother with this ridiculous situation anymore. But no matter how often he prompted and scolded himself, he just couldn’t take his own advice. He was too wrapped up in chains of curiosity that ceaselessly whispered to him of the potential rewards of greatness that would be his destiny if he would just follow this hard-to-believe story through.

  At 7 o’clock, he drained his final glass and, squinting his eyes, again tried to peer through the veil of the rain-soaked night. Suddenly, his heart rate quickened as he perceived shapes in the gloom. Were there two dark figures standing next to the signpost, or were they an optical delusion? What if it was an ambush? Was one of them the person he was supposed to meet, or were they just average bus riders standing in the pouring rain in the dark with no umbrella? Nervously, he wiped his brow with the back of his thick palm and checked the time again.

  7:03 p.m. After waiting and worrying all day, he had finally come to this pivotal moment—the point of no return. Was he going to step into Wonderland or not? Frank made his choice.

  Chapter 6

  The rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers had gone unbroken for the last two hours, and the exhaust from the slow-moving car trailed behind it like an eerie fog. From within the vehicle, two stoic faces looked carefully out into the night, scanning the streets and sidewalks. The driver kept both of his steady hands on the wh
eel as he drove from street to street, sweeping the blocks one at a time. The passenger, whose immense form seemed too big for the sleek, black coupe to contain, kept a hand on the door handle, ready to jump out at a moment’s notice. He would have to be quick and precise. No scenes, no mess—boss’s orders.

  “Checkup that way,” the big man ordered the driver, indicating the direction he meant with a sharp jerk of his head. His Slavic accent was about as strong as he was, and saturated with experienced authority.