A MAN
The coffee shop is busy with commuters ordering skinny this, decaf that. Overhead a rolling news channel shows an area of ramshackle tents, and the starving people encamped there, as the anchor woman talks of the increase in refugees fleeing the famine in central Africa.
Robert waits uncomfortably in line, shyly avoiding eye contact with others while at the same time fidgeting nervously with his shabby suit. Two city slickers silently mock him behind his back. He reaches the front of the line, the waitress looking him up and down with disdain.
“Sir, if I take your order do you have the means to pay for it?”
A snigger from the city slickers before a hush descends on those standing nearby, making the news channel more audible as it talks of ecological hotspots around the globe. Robert shuffles nervously as people turn to stare at him. He produces a twenty dollar bill.
“Cash? You’re going to pay with cash?”
“A large Americano to have in.”
“I cannot serve you an Americano, Sir. Americano is now a trademark of…”
He could hardly blame them. It had been one of the oddest quirks of recent years. A strange alignment of circumstances creating the most bizarre of business opportunities. The opportunity had presented itself and it had been taken. He would have done the same himself and indeed had done something similar at about the same time. But right now, for the briefest of moments, it was focusing Robert’s mind and that was enough to abruptly shift his demeanor, the shyness melting away to reveal the tiniest glimpse of a profound confidence.
“But you know what an Americano is, right?”
“Sir.”
A testily delivered response that Robert considers to be a clear indicator of enough buttons having being pressed with no value to be gained from pressing more. “Triple espresso with water.”
“You want space for—”
“Black.”
The service is efficient and the coffee already made. Robert hands over the money, takes the cup and steps away under the mocking gaze of the slickers. The bustle of the coffee shop resumes as he shyly looks about for a seat. A table frees up and Robert quickly secures it. A group of three other patrons, also looking for a table, are not amused.
“Oh, come on, man! There’s a single seat at the window.”
Robert ignores them, fidgeting nervously. The altercation is slight and doesn’t attract much attention, but the leader of the group steps it up a gear.
“Hey. Did you hear what I said? There’s three of us. Can’t you take a single seat?”
A few people start to stare Robert’s way, this time with questioning expressions. He stares awkwardly at his coffee, seemingly unable to deal with the situation confidently.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Robert mumbles.
The waitress spies the situation with a questioning look of her own, eyes narrowing quizzically. Something about that guy. Time to intercede.
“Hey, Mr. Americano, take a single seat. We’re busy.”
The patron is delighted. “Well, come on then.”
Robert’s demeanor wobbles again, “Look—”
“Are you going to shift your ass or what?
Out of nowhere Toor steps in, eyes locked on the patron. “Have we got a problem here, sir?”
Before the patron can get a word out Landelle confronts him, discretely revealing an official badge. The patron looks Toor and Landelle over and decides that the intimidating front is likely a façade for something quite different altogether and not conducive to his day. He backs down, shuffling his group away.
Toor and Landelle seat themselves at Robert’s table. More people are looking their way, some whispering among themselves. The news channel has rolled on again, the sound drowned out by the hubbub of the coffee shop. It’s an interview with Senator Blake, the caption reading ‘Afrika Project—Senate Hearings.’
Landelle relaxes into her chair and eyes up Robert as he continues to stare into his coffee.
“And how are you today, Bob?”
This particular person pushing that particular button is enough for a more prolonged awakening for Robert, his nodding acknowledgment of what would have been needed to bring the three of them together at this moment manifesting in the glimmer of a cynical grin.
“I would imagine that you had to commit several indictable offences to join me for coffee this morning, Debs.”
Landelle leans in close to him to make her point, “Just be thankful it’s me and not the F.B.I.”
“Speaking of which,” says Toor, “We need to leave. Now.”
Robert shifts his gaze to the stern Toor. “I’m minded to finish my coffee, Shaz. Cost me twenty dollars. That’s nearly five pounds in real money.”
This serves to only exasperate the businesslike Toor, but Landelle has another way to play this game. “Sure about that, Bob?” gesturing at all about them, “Sure you want to stay here?”
Robert follows her gaze, his newly acquired confident demeanor ebbing away again, the crushing shyness returning. The coffee shop falls silent. Everyone stares at him. It is with some dismay that he observes a black town car pull up outside.
Resigned to his situation he gets up and nonchalantly makes his way to the serving counter, past the group of patrons from earlier who now track him with agape mouths. He arrives before the waitress who served him. It’s all she can do to stare back wide-eyed with astonishment. She knows who he is, just as everyone else does, and can’t imagine that there’s a living soul the world over who does not. This man, who had been hidden in plain sight, now revealed from under a cloak in invisibility not of his own making, but which has been seen to dog him these recent times.
Robert sets his coffee mug on the counter, “I’d like this to go, please.”
With a robotic action she pours the coffee into a take-out cup, a slight shake to her hand. As she does so the rolling news channel, silent for a brief transition, moves onto a new story, the anchor woman talking over a picture of a man’s clean shaven face. Robert’s face.
“So where is he? Billionaire Robert Cantor has now eluded all attempts by Senator Blake to serve him with a subpoena for ten days, despite the astonishing move by the Senator of using the F.B.I.”
A sound bite from the hawkish Senator, “In short we aren’t going to stand for it. Robert Cantor will be brought to book.”
The waitress’s eyes flick to the screen and back to Robert, shoving the take-out cup forward as the anchor woman continues on, “Cantor’s recent erratic behavior has caused some to question his state of mind.”
He deftly scoops up the cup and whirls around to face the coffee shop.
Dozens of camera phones appear.
A frenzy of shaky video and frozen moments capture Robert’s exit from the coffee shop, flanked by Toor and Landelle as two cops keep the patrons inside. Landelle opens the town car door and Robert climbs aboard.
THE JUDICIARY
Robert sits opposite a stern, tight-lipped Justice Garr, as Landelle and Toor climb in. The car moves off and Garr wastes no time setting about a braced Robert with a verbal club.
“For heaven’s sake, Bobby! Where have you been?”
“Hello, Alka.”
“And look at you! No better than a bum.”
Robert winces at the personal rebuke, knowing better than push back too early during an onslaught from this individual. Toor, never having fully understood the depth of history between the two of them, seeks to intercede.
“Justice Garr, perhaps…”
“No, Sharanjit. He needs to face up to his responsibilities.” But Garr sees that Robert is retreating back in to himself. “This…condition. It’s getting worse, isn’t it. Why won’t you see Lucius?” It’s enough to snap Robert out of it and snap at her.
“They still prescribe lithium, you know. You’d think it was the bloody nineteenth century!” Robert sinks back into a mood. Outside the city slides by. Garr leans forward.
“Senator Blake has been
making considerable capital out of your evasion of his subpoena.”
“I am afforded the right not to be served.”
“And he is afforded the right to serve you. And he’s using the F.B.I. to do it. Manhattan is probably crawling with them already.”
Robert is more than ready to lock horns, “Blake’s committee is a political stunt and irrelevant. I have the popular vote, not him.”
Garr leans back, eying up Landelle and Toor before calling forward to the driver. “George, pull over,” followed by a polite request of the two women, “I need a moment alone with Bob.”
A compliant Landelle gets out followed by an irritated Toor, pushing the door closed behind her. The two of them linger beyond the privacy glass. Garr ponders Robert for a moment, his eyes averted.
“Where do you disappear to? And why?”
“I need to be alone to deal with the times when I can’t be.”
“It’s a wonder you’re never spotted, let alone…”
“People don’t see me when I’m that way, and that’s just fine with me.”
“Be as it may, your behavior has given Blake the mandate he needs. It no longer matters whether you have popular opinion behind you or not. When Blake lifts the lid on the Afrika he’ll find Five Earths, then Trinity and then the cat will most decidedly be out of the bag.”
Robert snaps back at her, jabbing his retort home. “Then get the coalition to stop him.”
“Monica lobbied them, but they won’t lift a finger.”
“Monica?” Shocked surprise from Robert.
“She still believes in Trinity, Bob. But Blake’s committee has everyone else distancing themselves.” Garr’s tone with Robert darkens. “The coalition want her to throw you to the wolves. So does your board of directors.” She looks away—at the world outside, “They are seeking to take control of the company and have you removed.”
“On what grounds?”
Garr keeps her gaze elsewhere, but she can hear the contempt in his voice.
She lingers on the outside world a moment longer, “That you are absent from your responsibilities,” before confronting him directly. “You can hardly blame them. If Blake finds Trinity they will be culpable. Your head on a platter might just stop him digging any deeper.”
Robert’s face boils with a rage. Garr rests back in her seat to make her concluding point.
“So there you have it. Blake is after you and the coalition and your own board want to hang you out to dry. The only person fighting your corner is Monica. Your only way out now is to confront Blake. You must appear before the Senate committee and prevail. You cannot let him find Trinity.”
Fighting back the rage, Robert wastes no time getting out of the car, Garr calling after him.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction of serving you with that subpoena.” But he isn’t listening so an exasperated Garr instructs Landelle, “For God’s sake, keep him out of sight and get him to the hearings.”
THE POLITICIAN
Curbside, Landelle watches Garr’s town car pull away before turning to an expectant Robert.
“Hey, Debs, can I borrow your phone for a sec?”
Without thinking, Landelle hands it over. Robert takes it and tosses it onto the road where it is crushed by a passing truck.
“Jesus, Bob!”
Robert’s attention turns to Toor, “Hopefully you know better.” She does—and with good reason. Robert’s paranoia is not unfounded when it comes to electronic surveillance. But they are still far from safe.
“We need to get off the streets,” she says to Landelle, and to Robert, “You and I need to talk.” But Toor can see that his attention and gaze are elsewhere. She snaps her fingers about his head, “Wake up! Have you any idea how much stuff I have been signing off on? And God only knows I don’t know what half of it is for.”
Robert remains distant, “You’re doing a great job, Shaz.”
“That’s the point! I’m not supposed to be. You are.” His gaze is unwavering. She follows it to a magnificent, slender skyscraper. “What? No, no, no—you can’t go there.”
Distant sirens echo around the city, snapping Robert back into reality with a bitterness about him. “I’ll deal with them later.” He looks around to get his bearings, before marching off.
“Bob! Where are you going?” Toor exchanges an exasperated glance with Landelle as they both take off after him.
* * *
They are at a news kiosk, Robert rummaging through his pockets to retrieve a crumpled twenty dollar bill. As he hands it to the clerk a headline on a digital newspaper changes, catching his eye—‘Cantor seen in Manhattan.’ The clerk hands him a phone card. He takes it and turns away quickly. Toor and Landelle look about nervously.
“We have minutes at best,” says Landelle, a few passers by giving Robert a second glance as he wanders over to a beat-up public phone. Landelle is indignant, “Oh, great. You toss my phone and use a public one. Langley will trace the call.” Robert examines the phone, finding a serial number. Seemingly satisfied he starts tapping options on its screen.
“Not from this phone, they won’t,” he says. It’s a basic phone, but has a video option. He shoves the phone card into a slot, selects ‘Request Video,’ ‘Caller Message,’ taps out a series of digits and hits ‘Place Call.’ The screen flashes ‘Message’ to which Robert responds, “Robert Cantor.”
Toor sticks her head in as close as she can to get his attention, “Who could you possibly be calling at a time like this?”
Senator Blake’s face appears—at an angle indicating he is on a mobile device. A sarcastic shake of his head, “Up to your old tricks again I see, Mr. Cantor. How much did you pay for this number?”
“So I take a few days off and you set the F.B.I. on me?”
“You brought this on yourself. But hey, why don’t we all get together on the Hill—”
“You can take your committee and, to use the American vernacular, shove it up your ass. Seems to me the world needs a reminder of what this is all about. And you know what? I’m going to give it one.”
“Gonna getcha with that subpoena sooner or later.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” And with that Robert ends the call.
Landelle is beside herself, confronting Robert, “What the hell are you doing?” She can see he is now transformed, energized with a fully rebuilt confidence. Perhaps a little too energized for her liking.
“I am me. And I am going to go on being me.”
She can only balk back at him, “That’s the problem. You aren’t you.”
Robert’s attention flicks to Toor, “We all set?”
Landelle queries them both, “Set? Set for what?”
“You’ll never get a slot out of Newark. Even if we make it there,” says Toor.
“Have a little faith, Shaz.”
“For the millionth time, stop calling me Shaz. I hate that name. It’s Sharanjit. Sharan. Jit.”
But Robert is already on the move.
* * *
He arrives at the corner of a side street where it exits onto Park Avenue. His eyes find something in the distance—the Pan Am building as was, now home to the resurrected airline once again, sporting that famous logo as if nothing had happened all those decades ago. A Yellow Cab stops at a nearby junction. The taxi driver, having spied Robert, leans out of his window, jabbing his finger at him, “Hey, Bobby! You need to sort yourself out! End this!” As the cab pulls away people stop and stare at Robert. Nearby a giant billboard changes its image to promote an upcoming investigative journalism program on a media channel—a picture of Robert and Senator Blake—‘The Afrika Project. Where will it all end?’
THE EMERALD CITY
Her name is Apio, one of the few facts they have dared extract from her directly, as if her surroundings were not traumatic enough in Lucius’s mind. He still boggles at the idea that such a facility exists in the city. High-end biological containment. But Felton had a point—she didn’t seem the least bit bothered b
y any of it. Felton had finally given the all-clear and Lucius could now engage with her, though she had to remain in the containment room.
For now he was leafing through the pencil drawings found scattered about her in the General Assembly Hall. There were one hundred sixty-nine in all, each covered by a pattern of neatly drawn lines that snaked across the page, no two alike. Seemingly Apio had drawn them, so Lucius had given her some crayons to see if she would draw some more. It worked, but what she was drawing now was a normal child-like drawing—a curved sky line with green plants underneath and beneath the apex of the sky line a bright yellow sun. Lucius thought it might be a desert island. Is that where she’s been?
The nurse observes his interest in the drawing. “What are you drawing, Apio?” she asks, in French; it’s the only language Apio knows.
“The Emerald City,” she replies.
Lucius knows a little French also. “The Emerald City?” He fans out the stack of pencil drawings. “Ask her about these.”
“Do you known what these pretty patterns are, Apio?”
Apio is clearly shy about this, averting her gaze away from the nurse, “A puzzle.”
“Was it given to you?” the nurse asks.
“I had to learn to draw it.”
This startles the two of them, but with only a quick glance for Lucius from the nurse. She doesn’t want to spook the child, so casually continues.
“Who was it that taught you?”
“They didn’t say.”
Lucius exchanges another furtive glance of concern with the nurse. Returning his gaze to the fanned-out drawings he spots something. He draws two sheets like cards from a deck. Their patterns line up along one edge. He starts spreading all the sheets out on the floor.
“I know, let’s play a game,” the nurse says to Apio, taking two cloth dolls from a toy box. Apio’s eyes track the dolls warily. “You can show me how you learnt the puzzle with these puppets,” the nurse says.
Lucius shuffles sheets around looking for more matches, but none are immediately evident. He slumps with exasperation. He looks up at the observation widow where Felton is standing.
Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1) Page 2