Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  ‘Must be serious.’ Beer taken, Coffey turns the page. ‘You tell him I cleaned everything? No electronic trace?’

  Rodriguez had only finished lectures for the day and walked through the door still absorbing the orders, letting them percolate like coffee through filter paper.

  The trouble was to get in and get out in one piece. The logistics and time window meant they had to go in blind, no surveillance of the building or surrounding area. That means increased risks, and risks means the normally small gap you allow for things to go wrong would be a large gaping hole. It’s not how they work, not how they trained, but the orders were as Mooney had put it, ‘Crystal.’

  Counterintelligence agent Coffey spent the day monitoring and following up on local stories concerning the deaths of Professor Peter Nash and Travis Sparks. One social media commentator made reference to the crash and recovery of a body as testament the bay hasn’t the thriving shark population as suspected. Another hinted a more sinister possibility, connecting it somehow to the Charles River accident in Boston. It was hacked and closed down by a worm that corrupted the conspiracy theorist blogger’s network and encrypted data on all connected storage devices. Coffey was impressed with himself by routing the attack through various networks and bouncing it across several Third World countries.

  He sits up and registers the level of concern escalating on Rodriquez’s face. A complete relaxation of facial muscles to the point they resemble clay, slumped on a potter’s wheel, then tensing and contorting to a sculpture of hard focus, of structure.

  ‘Don’t have to study for exams, do we?’ Coffey notes. ‘It was only a matter of time before we were deployed elsewhere.’

  Rodriguez’s jaw rubs back and forth chewing on the details, starts walking around the room and gesturing to quickly pack bags.

  ‘We’re going to Boston,’ Rodriguez finally says.

  Coffey springs up from his bed; the magazine left to fall to the ground. ‘What’s the order?’ Swigs the can empty and throws it in the bin by the desk.

  He hadn’t seen his partner of three years act like this before. Rodriguez wouldn’t show or talk like he was scared, but he is, and it makes Coffey wary, and as he pulls out both duffle bags from under the bed, throwing one on his bed, the other into Rodriquez’s spare hand he becomes petrified.

  ‘Technology Square, the CIA building,’ Rodriguez says then whispers: ‘We’re going to blow it up.’

  The words send a shiver down Coffey’s spine. He stops cold. ‘And how do we do that?’ he asks slowly, thinking if he heard right.

  ‘Car bomb. We crash through the security gate, explode the car in the parking lot and get out under the cover of confusion,’ Rodriguez explains thinking it’s better to rip the bandage clean off, one painful tug. ‘We can’t be detected by any cameras.’

  They’re in this together. They’ll do what’s ordered of them.

  Coffey zips up his bag and bends down to pick up the magazine. Rodriguez kneels down and pulls out guns and electronic equipment secured in a specially made cavity in the frame of the bed.

  ‘Shit,’ Coffey says looking at Rodriguez. ‘Are we targeting someone? What’s the purpose?’ He is aware of the General’s distain for snake eyes. ‘How does he expect us to pull this off?’ Adds hoping for some unrealistic lets-not-do-it response from his partner.

  ‘I’ll explain on the way,’ Rodriguez says handing back the duffle bag. ‘But we have to leave pronto.’ Then walks to the door and picks up the other bag, looking down for Coffey to grab the other handle.

  ‘This technology Nash is working on,’ Coffey says taking the weight, ‘must be the goods to go to all this trouble.’

  ‘The General said to get to Travis Air Force Base like our tails are on fire.’

  ‘Boston,’ Coffey screws up his face.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not that fat prick, Bozeman?’ Coffey says looking up in mock prayer.

  Nestled in a corner of his local bar and hugging a communal bowl of peanuts, Bozeman wobbles on a stool taking out his cell phone: a call from agent Coffey.

  ‘Bozeman,’ he says. The other end is almost inaudible as the voice crackles and hisses. Wedges a finger in his ear to hear better. ‘Hello!’

  He takes out his notepad—doesn’t trust so called ‘smartphones’ to keep important data, paper never needs charging—and writes down the instructions.

  Notes the urgency in Coffey’s voice.

  ‘Needed as soon as you touch down,’ Bozeman repeats the words. Dips a finger in his beer and licks clear the salt.

  ‘Yes,’ he says raising his voice and holding the cell in front of his mouth. ‘Masen’s Porsche, license plate…Look, I got it. White…other stuff…C4.’ Stops and looks around the bar, thinks, I shouldn’t have said that out loud.

  Hangs up. He has time before the plane touches down.

  It had been a while since Bozeman jacked a car, but the important thing—at least what he keeps telling himself—is that after all this time, he believes he still has the ticker for it. He wasn’t privy to all the details; wasn’t told, didn’t ask. Having carved out a comfortable existence in Army Counterintelligence, his main task is keeping tabs on snake eyes in Boston and never let Mooney down. Simple. He is still kicking, so he’s either doing an acceptable job or Mooney thinks he’s dead.

  He looks down at his stomach, sucks it in and says, ‘That’d be about right,’ watching folds of fat catch in his shirt following his stomach’s artificial retreat. Soon makes out his belt. ‘What it looked like when I last stole a car and was on my second wife.’

  Bozeman flicks through the pages and stops on the description of the car and tow company he called to get Masen’s attention. Written across an unknown brownish reddish stain, he makes out his handwritten scribble through one eye looking down the side of his glass: S26JW4 Porsche license plate. Finch & Sons Towing.

  Sighs putting down the glass, then walks out.

  He can tick off the next item: a costume hire place on Elmore Street. Nothing like a brick through a window, a quick retrieval and he would have his wig. It’s on the way to Finch & Sons at the old industrial estate, an hour’s drive.

  I can swing by my place, get the C4 and trigger, get the wig and jack the car.

  The C4 is wrapped in an oily rag and tucked in a void under the stairs in his basement. Just enough to rock the building and get noticed. A liberated memento from his days in bomb disposal; another life, a different wife. The trigger he made by dismantling an old wrist watch, a few stripped wires from a worn-out electric blanket, and used battery (it fizzled on his tongue) from a fire alarm which he should have replaced with a fresh one, but didn’t because you can knock out a battery with a broom but you need a ladder to put in a new one.

  The extra five ounces of C4 would buy them certainty. And besides, he could always carve some off if they didn’t need the extra pressure. His philosophy has always been if you blow something up don’t go off half-cocked.

  He burps standing beside his tanned Ford Crown Victoria having a hard time unfolding warm hands that are wedged under sweatbox armpits. The car door creaks open. Looking around the interior of his car in the starkness of the interior light, a whiff of professionalism is all that Bozeman aspires to. He leans over and wipes the passenger seat clear of an assortment of empty cans, foam coffee cups and crinkled waxed food wrappers. Rips open with his teeth three packets of tree air fresheners and hangs them in front of the old ones on the rearview mirror summoning the scent of a nordic pine forest.

  Pulling up at his house, a narrow red brick single-fronted suburban dream, still luckily his—the number 9 looking more like a 6 on the letter box, and windows that can do with some cleaning—looks at his watch. He’s making good time.

  Kneeling on the basement floor, rolls up his right shirt sleeve and shoves his hand up to his armpit, feels around contorting his face. The tongue a counterbalance as he wriggles for a hold. The oily rag is jus
t in reach to pinch a corner between index and middle finger, pulls the explosive device out from underneath the stairs. Clear, he sighs and keels over on his back. Not quite tanked, but the session has left him wondering. It is enough strain to produce sweat on his forehead that needs mopping up with a lazy arm. Stares at the ceiling and cracks a smile. ‘I don’t know about my chances with the car.’

  The convalescence is longer than he planned for. Truth is, despite the pain and discomfort, he likes the excitement of being in the ‘game’ again, not just sitting around following spooks. He only does what he’s told. Coffey wasn’t forthcoming with the details of the plan, just the essentials: location to pickup, time, target. He misses fieldwork and commits to making the mission successful.

  Coffey and Rodriguez will need all the local knowledge he can offer; the choke points in traffic, CCTVs and his various official and off-the-book connections and safe houses to lay low for a day or two if needed. Even less wholesome types if things become desperate enough.

  Street- and craft-smart, agile, but now past his prime, the old dog still had a few tricks to show the new pups. He’ll push through any pain and get it done. Wife number two said he could never see things through; that was domestic life which he never warmed to, but back in the day he was a worthy operative.

  Bozeman needs to keep ahead of time in case the last item is delayed. The car pulls up in front of the costume hire shop. He leans down and pops the trunk. Feeling the weight of the brick in hand, squares himself to the red and yellow neon sign: ‘McGweller’s Costume Hire.’ Having spent a few embarrassing costume parties dressed in all manner of stupidity, the weight feels good, and as the brick sails through the air smashing through glass, he can’t help but smile picturing his ex’s face on the glass window.

  At the airport parking lot, he secures the car and waits to see the indicators flash before leaving. Nearby, a fluorescent light tries to spark to life, but only manages a sizzling dull yellowish glow. He makes a mental note of the car’s location: Blue Level 2B.

  Struggling to come up with a plan to liberate the car, he pushes to the front of the taxi rank and heaves in the front seat of the first available taxi.

  ‘Where to mister?’ the driver asks.

  ‘South. Old industrial estate.’ Buckles up. ‘Know it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The man pushes a button on the machine and after a bus passes, pulls into traffic.

  ‘How long?’ Bozeman asks flicking the bright pink hair of a Troll stuck on the top of a kid’s pencil he accidentally sat on.

  ‘Should be around twenty-five, thirty minutes.’ The man looks behind and shrugs shoulders. ‘But traffic?’ Questions with hands.

  ‘If needed,’ Bozeman says showing the man his detective’s badge.

  21

  Hanscom Air Force Base, Massachusetts

  According to Rodriguez’s watch the plane touched down exactly one minute late. A worsening storm cell on the west coast offset the benefits of a strong tailwind on the east. Helped was Mooney pulling some strings so the control tower cleared the airspace for a direct approach.

  During the flight Coffey and Rodriguez improvised an attack using items found on the plane; packets of sugar, salt and pepper, toothpicks, and Coffey’s magazine to recreate the building and surrounding streets to work through the detail. A logical approach to the building soon became apparent. They would drive north on Portland to avoid making a left into the lane where the parking lot entrance is.

  ‘UPS work out their routes without turning left to reduce the chance of an accident,’ Rodriguez had said. Coffey didn’t question his partner. He liked how Rodriguez’s mind worked: plucking small nuggets of information and incorporating them into the plan.

  Technology Square Street slices a large corner of the block surrounded by Portland, Broadway, Main and Galileo Galilei Way, with the lane cutting through like a large bite mark. The CIA building being located in the front section of the bite. One side fronts Main, but access is via the lane which runs parallel behind.

  The scene on the magazine roughly resembled the satellite image of the area on Coffey’s phone which they consult for finer details and the quickest escape route.

  ‘We cross Main,’ Rodriguez said running a peanut along Kate Upton’s inner thigh and stopped at a toothpick traffic light, adjacent a stack of sugar packets for the building. ‘If traffic’s a problem we make a right at the intersection and approach the lane from the other side.’

  With cavalier attitude, Rodriguez picked up the peanut and threw it in his open mouth.

  Coffey nodded and pointed near a belly button. ‘That takes us down a way one street going the wrong way.’

  Rodriquez smiled. ‘No wonder you don’t get laid.’ His finger slowly tracing down past her navel. ‘The honey pot is never the wrong way.’

  Coffey turned serious. ‘The university guarantees a lot of people will be about.’

  Rodriguez snatched the cell, expanded the image and pointed to sidewalks and paths that criss-cross between the buildings. ‘Melting into the background isn’t going to be the problem.’ His smile lost as he spun the phone to show Coffey. ‘We have to clear the lane first. If the blast funnels up the driveway we can use the smoke and dust as cover.’

  They have worked enough mission together to have garnered a rapport so each can second-guess the other’s take on a situation. A product of living in each other’s pockets. It means they work quickly, but the drawback is similar thinking doesn’t always produce an optimal solution. Neither said a thing about a look-out, though both knew it was a good idea to help get the car into the parking lot.

  Coffey looked up from the cell. ‘Why did you join?’

  ‘You mean other than the excitement.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  Rodriguez smiled then huffed, ‘University tuition.’ Turned deadpan shaking his head as if to say are we doing this. ‘You?’

  ‘It beats kicking back in the neighborhood listening to the Carpenters and playing Bridge.’

  Rodriguez rubbed his finger on Upton’s honey pot and labored his breathing. ‘And jerking off to—’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Coffey wiped technology square from the magazine just as the plane touched down.

  ‘He’s not answering,’ Coffey says holding up and waving the cell on his third attempt to contact Bozeman since leaving the plane. They’d stopped walking across the tarmac, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Coffey picks up a handle of the shared heavy bag, then the pair continue towards the guarded western gate. The yellow and pinkish horizon provides dim light and hint sunrise isn’t far off.

  ‘We need the car,’ Rodriguez says. ‘You spoke with him. Think he knows—’

  ‘No,’ Coffey says. ‘Nothing about the mission. Just the list. We’ll give him ten minutes.’

  ‘We have a backup plan,’ Rodriguez says lower the bag to the ground.

  ‘This is hasty,’ Coffey says. ‘Nothing’s planned about this whole mess. First the Professor, a spook…now this.’

  ‘We work the plan. If we need to adapt, we adapt. We have time on the way there to go through it again.’

  They sit and wait, although adrenaline makes it impossible for either to be still. They are silent, going through each step in their heads. Timing is the most important factor. As soon as they crash through the barrier, they have seconds to set the timer, get clear and get ready to move out blocking their faces from CCTVs—without it looking like they’re hiding their faces.

  After a few minutes, Coffey walks off and paces the electrified and razor barbed fence, fidgeting and looking at his watch every few second and keeping an eye out for their ride.

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to make it,’ Coffey finally says. ‘We better—’

  ‘Sh!’ Rodriguez interrupts. ‘Hear that?’

  Coffey looks at his partner, his head is turned towards a side access road half a mile away from the fence that runs parallel to a pine tree plantation. />
  ‘Music?’ Coffey quizzes turning his ear.

  ‘Yeah, I think.’ Rodriguez says pointing, then standing. ‘A car.’

  Coffey sees it. Beyond the fence, a plume of dust.

  ‘Think that’s Bozeman?’ Rodriguez asks.

  ‘Maybe college kids getting a thrill at taunting the guards more like it,’ Coffey says, turns and yawns in the crisp air and stretches, tensing muscles into the new day and looks down and studies his shadow running out along the tarmac.

  The plume and music grows larger as the car approaches, and takes a sharp right turn onto the approach road to the base.

  ‘Who ever it is, they’re in a hurry,’ Rodriguez says.

  ‘Is that…’ Coffey squints leaning forward. ‘Nirvana…Smells Like Teen Spirit?’

  Rodriguez looks at his watch: on time.

  Thinking of a strained conversation he once had with Bozeman about music, Coffey remembers Nirvana tickles his fancy. ‘That’s Bozeman for sure,’ he says in a gloomy tone and signals a reassuring wave to panicked guards as the car’s speed picks up.

  The familiar hypnotic guitar rhythm heralds Bozeman’s arrival. Rodriguez and Coffey pick up the bags and gesture for the guards to retract the fence. As they walk through, the car comes to a skidding stop twenty yards ahead. The driver revs the engine and turns the car one-hundred eighty degrees peppering them with small stones and dust.

  The music blasts through an open window. A door opens and a bandaged leg touches the ground. The bass is loud enough to vibrate up through their legs and create a fuzzy feeling in their heels.

  Despite the Danger Attack Dog sign proving accurate, and his obvious painful limb, Bozeman feels alive. Driving a high performance car while sucking on a stogy and blaring his favorite band, he is in his version of heaven reserved for grunge, fringe lifestyle purists. He exits the car proper, stands, stumbles and grabs the door frame.

  ‘Am I late?’ he asks blowing smoke. ‘I had a disagreement with a guard dog. Bloody tenacious thing he was,’ he adds with a smirk that fails to transform into a smile in the throbbing pain.