‘On time,’ Coffey says stoically looking down at his bandages, ‘More like it started eating you, Bozeman.’
Pointing at his bloodied leg, Bozeman laughs. ‘No, had the cops on my back when I liberated this beast.’ And slaps a hand on the roof. Struggling to get back in the car, he points to the front passenger door. ‘I need one of you up here, the other in the back. Say, bring the plates out if you wouldn’t mind. Should be a screwdriver and screws up front. You’ll need to reattach the number plates. I’d do it, but my leg.’ He’d taken the plates off in case it was filmed driving here, or he ran a red light. Of course he couldn’t do anything about Finch & Sons reporting the theft, but at least the paperwork would take time to filter through to the CIA.
Both men walk to the hood and heave in the bags.
Coffey fishes around for the plates, screws and screwdriver and once found attaches the front ones while Rodriguez gets in the front passenger side, folds down the seat and climbs in the back.
Bozeman ejects the cigar with a mouthful of spit on the ground and turns off the radio.
Finished with the back plates, Coffey gets in.
‘Now, what do you want me to do,’ Bozeman asks breathing heavily and closing the door.
‘Nothing,’ both agents say in unison.
‘Where are the items?’ Rodriguez asks.
‘Secured in my car back at the airport. We switch in the parking lot. Are you sure you don’t want assistance?’
‘Yes,’ Coffey says.
The car turns right at the intersection. ‘I can provide lookout from the building across the lane,’ Bozeman says adjusting the rearview mirror so he can see Rodriguez. ‘It has a good view of the driveway.’
‘Why do you think you know what the mission is?’ Rodriguez queries. Mooney was very specific about not telling Bozeman anything other than what he needed to know and that included the location.
‘Come on.’ Bozeman’s voice becomes less animated. ‘Masen’s car, the wig, C4. Travis Spark’s car crashing in the Charles River and putting two warm bodies on the plane. I’m not an idiot. That’s serious fellas. You need help. I know Mooney’s an asshole, but he’ll want you both to come out of this alive.’ The last few words strain as a sharp pain shoots up his leg.
Both thought a lookout was a good idea, although it was left unsaid on the plane—useful to provide cover and alert them about approaching vehicles and possible blockages in the alley, but there was complete radio silence on this one, otherwise they risk being found out Masen didn’t act alone.
‘Complete radio silence, sorry,’ Rodriguez says as if to shut down the idea.
‘No kidding, Sherlock. Old fashion I’m talking about. A mirror. One flash, all good, two, there’s something wrong so wait, three, abort mission.’
Rodriguez leans forward and nudges Coffey who’s thinking the same thing.
‘Fine,’ Coffey says looking Bozeman up and down, and doubts how he’s even going to help himself. ‘…But, there’s no aborting.’
‘Got it?’ Rodriguez asks.
‘Crystal,’ Bozeman says nodding ahead. He grips the steering wheel with both hands and revs the engine to shake a knocking sound that hurts his leg. Checks the gas while his eyes are looking down: plenty for a one way ride. Thinks, Mooney’s gone rogue on this one. Masen on a plane to Japan with Sparks, now their work is going to be bombed. ‘It doesn’t sound like Mooney,’ he says resting an arm on the door.
‘And you spoke to him?’ Rodriguez says picking up and studying a paper: Quantum Superposition and Encryption with Professor Nash and Dr John Masen as co-author. What strikes him as strange, is that in some parts he understands the symbols and equations.
‘Yeah, well…no,’ Bozeman is forced to admit.
‘Then what’s there to talk about?’ Rodriguez throws the paper on the seat next to him and casts his mind back to lectures and assignments he no longer has to attend or submit.
‘But Technology Square…,’ Bozeman sighs thinking of the risk they’re taking for such a relatively small target. ‘The job you did on Nash.’ The more the thinks about it, the more it grates him. ‘He’s an adviser to the president.’
‘Orders are orders,’ Coffey says. ‘They’re not trinkets in a game of pass-the-parcel you get to trade afterwards.’
‘What is it between you two?’ Rodriguez asks looking between them. ‘Someone tell me, now!’
Bozeman looks out his window, Coffey his. Only the indicator is heard as they pass a sign for the turnoff for the airport, up ahead.
‘Ray,’ Rodriguez says. ‘We don’t have time. If we’re going to do this I need to know I can trust the both of you.’
‘Your boy’s sore with me, is all,’ Bozeman says. ‘Water under the bridge.’ Looks to Coffey. ‘Ain’t a thing, isn’t that right?’
‘Is that what you call it?’ Coffey says after a few stretched seconds. Then with resignation in his voice: ‘Tell you later, James.’
Bozeman rips off a piece of fabric from his shirt, bites down on one end and steers with his knees, uses both hands to drag what’s left of his trouser leg up over the wound. He spits out the cloth and secures it around the wound to ease the flow of blood.
It hurts like Jesus.
‘Glad it’s you two and not me,’ Bozeman says.
At the airport parking lot, Coffey walks over to the car lit by the headlights of the Porsche that shows every blemish, every imperfection and a build up of fresh dirt.
‘The trunk,’ Bozeman says with his head protruding out the window and clicks his remote. Indicators flash. Coffey raises a hand as Rodriguez looks behind checking for cars.
Once Coffey transfers the items, Bozeman gets out of the car and Rodriguez sits in the driver’s seat, adjusts the seat forward, and tweaks the side mirror.
Standing and leaning on the door frame, Bozeman advises Rodriguez through the open window. ‘A couple of ounces heavy of your specs. I can trim some of the fat from the C4 if you want.’
‘When you say a few…’
Bozeman holds up five fingers. ‘Five ounces.’
‘…A bit too much,’ Rodriguez says thinking of his orders to make it count. ‘We can still get out in time…no, it’s good. Anything else I should know?’
‘Yeah, it’s a FUBAR order. Think about it would you. And don’t worry about spotting me. I don’t do subtle.’
Rodriguez taps his knuckles on the dash and shakes his head all is good.
‘You haven’t changed Bozeman,’ Coffey says getting in the car and sliding to the back seat. It’s taken as it was served up.
Bozeman stands gingerly on a battered leg, watches the car disappear and thinks of Masen. He genuinely likes him. Thinks the kid deserves better than being known for blowing up the CIA.
22
Boston, Massachusetts
Black’s internal body clock wakes him an hour early. Eyes open slowly in the newness of the converted warehouse apartment, and commands his body to be still, so the wondrous state of bliss will inhabit him a little longer. Stillness means smells can linger, suspended above and all around him and that any movement, no matter how small would scatter them. It is a special day.
A day years in the making that isn’t going to be rushed, but savored like fine wine, or a meal in a restaurant with a three month waiting list. He inhales slowly and stares up at the white ceiling. He traces the service pipes snaking their way up the wall, painted to match the matt black walls, turning perfectly white as they run twisting over the ceiling. White and black flakes of paint in various degrees of attachment to the aluminum pipe, curl, showing the silver skin underneath. The relentless expansion and contraction of the pipe slowly throwing off small and large chunks of paint.
The sheet catches a slight breeze, it travels under brushing against his toes and blows cold against wet, sticky skin. He is waking to full consciousness.
It will be an early start at the Barn. The hope is that by tomorro
w he will be gone, no trace, the money in a bank that will last him several lifetimes. So he hadn’t killed Masen himself. Watching his demise from afar won’t be as sweet as choking the life out of him, but it will bring a smile to his face. After leaving the restaurant, he drove to Masen’s apartment but arrived late. The door to the building was open and inside the foyer he noticed the door to the landlord’s apartment was ajar—inside was ransacked and there was no sign of Masen upstairs. He called his operatives in Japan but neither had answered their cell phones. Maybe Mooney took him, maybe not, but the chances are he is with Nash and Sparks.
However, nothing is going to stop him from obtaining the data. It had become his property, a rightful claim of ownership.
Teleportation.
He stretches and turns hearing a sound of gas bubbling up through mud. The waitress from the restaurant is lying naked next to him and very much dead. Her eyes are wide open, once rapidly searching for an explanation, now frozen, a tear of fear dried and stained on her cheek. Scattered clothes around the room tell the story of passion and struggle from the door, around the lamp, growing ever more chaotic and violent as they were strewn over the couch and onto the bed, where things turned bloody.
Having found Masen wasn’t at his apartment, he came back to the restaurant, waited outside for several hours until she appeared and because of the blocked road from the fire and discovery of a body, decided to walk home. Black followed.
The bedside table was the last impact point chosen in his heightened passion of the kill, a missing piece of wood partially implanted into the back of her skull.
He replays the exact moment she screamed as he grabbed her hair with both hands and sent her hurtling to what would be her final resting place. Now she looks perfect laying beside him. And looking past her investigates the bedside table. Once a place of serenity and reflection, which she would turn to before she fell asleep. In the elegant silver frame she is wearing a black graduation gown and mortarboard surrounded by gushing parents and three siblings.
23
Newton, Massachusetts
‘Over there looks good.’ Coffey leans forward and points past Rodriguez to a freeway overpass. They are driving south on interstate 95.
Rodriguez nods and changes lanes. ‘If the shit hits the fan and we have to separate,’ looks to his partner, ‘we meet back here before going to the safe house.’
‘Got it,’ Coffey acknowledges.
The car slows and pulls over onto the dirt shoulder in the shadow of the overpass, the car coming to a gentle stop next to a thistle bush.
Hazard lights flashing.
They had been driving for twenty minutes talking over the plan and discussing Bozeman’s role. It was accepted they would use him as they approach; one flash, go, two, wait, and three, pour on the gas. But they wouldn’t rely on Bozeman to help them vacate the area, not in his condition. And they wouldn’t be using the reverse gear.
‘And where in relation to Upton’s naval do we call this? Coffey asks to lighten the mood.
Rodriguez shakes his head. ‘Let’s just call it the bush.’
A sheltered spot, void of surveillance equipment, yet offering concealment for both bags. Graffiti on the angled concrete wall is only a concern if the mission takes longer. But they figure it’s going to be over in just under two hours. And it’s unlikely any local gang is going to be visiting this particular patch of dust. Both take mental pictures of the graffiti so they can identify the location afterward. Without weapons is the only way.
Going in clean presents another layer of complexity: they can’t shoot their way out. The weapons and electronic equipment are there in case things get complicated afterwards. They plan to stay in a safe house on the outskirts of Boston. A single room apartment, where they’ll waste a few days watching daytime TV, eat microwave food and wait for new orders.
The door handle is half cocked. Rodriguez waits for a white and yellow municipal bus to pass. The lagging gust peppers the car with dust and small stones and nearly blinds him as he walks to the front of the car. Stops looking over the car for the source of the phantom problem—the reason for the hazard lights—and heaves out the heaviest bag from the hood and places it on the ground and then the one from Bozeman on top. Next throws a smaller bag next to the passenger’s door for Coffey.
Coffey hearing the hood open and feeling the car jerk as the bags are retrieved prepares for his role as office worker, while Rodriguez will become John Masen. From now until the parking lot, Coffey is to remain hidden in the back seat.
With one hand out the car, Coffey pulls the bag up and through the passenger’s door then wrestles in the confined space, struggling to put on suit pants and moans arching his back, pressing feet deep into the leather seats, wobbling hips so the pants can ride up. Can’t have anyone identifying the car afterwards saying two people were in it. Once finished, he relaxes and laces up black leather shoes. A blanket is pulled out—to conceal his presence from any cameras at the building and en route—and jeans and boots stuffed in the bag and thrown over his head and out the door. With a suit Coffey can blend in with the chaos and disappear with Rodriguez once out of the parking lot.
Rodriguez picks up one of the bags and looking in the direction of oncoming traffic waits for a break before walking to the bush and stuffing it in the bushes.
Back at the car, Rodriguez unwraps the explosive device from the oily rags and gives the electronics a superficial inspection, tugs wires and tests the battery against his tongue. The tingle is strong enough to start the chemical reaction. Thinks, Bozeman’s right about the extra kick. He turns over the device and plays with its weight in his hand. Wraps it back up and secures it under his arm and pulls out the wig. Aware of the time, he quickly pats it down and maneuvers on his head to keep it from falling off.
‘Come on,’ Coffey says. ‘We’re falling behind.’
‘What do you think?’ Rodriguez asks looking in the rearview mirror.
‘Just punch it through and the CCTV won’t distinguish between you two.’ Pulls the blanket over his head.
Rodriguez gets out of the car and quickly hides the other bag of electronic equipment and weapons next to the other bag in the prickly bush. Taking a step back, he’s happy with the concealment.
‘Hurry.’
Rodriguez doesn’t turn hearing his partner’s muted voice. ‘You’re going to retrieve this, okay,’ he says twisting his tongue and withdrawing his hand slowly from the prickles and delicately through downward pointing spears. Once clear, he runs a hand carefully over to check for any imbedded prickles.
In the reflection of the window, as he walks back to the car, spits in his hand and combs down the wig once more. It mostly springs back.
Settling in the driver’s seat, flexes the rearview mirror to see how successfully Coffey’s concealed.
The plan is simple: they crash through the barrier to the parking lot. Rodriguez will get out, place the bomb next to a concrete column and start the timer. At that stage, Coffey should be out of the car and be making his way leisurely towards the exit, where Rodriguez will join him. It’s a simple plan, but many things can go wrong.
Coffey settles his breathing, trying to calm nerves. ‘Watch for Bozeman’s signal.’
Rodriguez puts the car into gear, turns off the hazard lights and eases into traffic. Thinks, we need more than Bozeman to pull this of. ‘ETA is 28 minutes.’
A block from the CIA building, and passing a dry cleaners, Bozeman chooses a lull in the procession of rushing morning office workers to shoulder-tackle a side mirror on a rusting double-parked red Ford pickup, figuring trucks like these don’t have alarms. His waddled gait builds up momentum, and twisting to present a shoulder makes contact, rocking the pickup. He grabs the mirror and tugs frantically to free it. Thinks, I can’t be late. The door makes a screeching noise before rusted metal struts brake free and the entire metal frame comes off in his hand; dislodged metal parts make a shrill
noise hitting the road, which he kicks under the truck. Stowing the mirror under his jacket crosses a side road, doing his best to conceal the mirror, and on the sidewalk turns sideways against a swarm of disinterested pedestrians, most of which have their heads buried in phones sipping their first coffee of the morning.
Walking the few steps to the entrance of the apartment building that backs onto the lane, he’s nearly pushed over by a bike courier swinging a bag over his shoulder as he rushes down stairs.
‘Hey asshole!’ Bozeman yells. ‘Maybe you can scrub the underneath of my car next time we meet.’ The man disappears in a blur of spandex infused panic, fighting with his bike. Smiles to himself walking up the few steps with the aid of a hand rail and stops at the door. He was hoping to catch someone leaving or coming, but like his thoughts on this one, luck ain’t hitching a ride.
He had used his fake identity as a Boston detective to gain entrance to buildings before. There’s nothing to it. Keep pushing numbers until someone answers and buzzes you in. You usually get two types of customers who relents. Complete apathy or an eager-beaver all too keen to help a sweet-talking detective. Never in between. Those pricks keep you on the intercom for five minutes wafting on about everything from the building’s code violations to being lectured about remembering the right number if you’re delivering pizza. He lucks out on an eager-beaver. An elderly man explains how only yesterday he saw a young policeman helping a neighbor cross the road.
And with the clink of the electronic door latch, pushes the door open and waits impatiently by the elevator. On the ride up, he shares the elevator ride with an instrumental arrangement of Lionel Ritchie’s Dancing On The Ceiling. A finger taps perfectly attuned, drumming the glass underneath his jacket, uninterrupted to the sixth floor where he’ll get the best view of the area around the driveway to the CIA’s data facility, the intersection of Main and Portland and the lane running behind.
Iris Rising Page 13