Fringe 03 - Sins of the Father

by Christa Faust

  He was exhausted, wrung out like a washrag and weighed down with thorny, unanswered questions. The most pressing of which remained what the hell he was going to do about Big Eddie.

  And he was all out of answers.

  A new message appeared in his inbox, attracting his eye. It was from his old Iraqi friend and fixer Tarik. The subject was BIG FISH.

  Hello my friend,

  Please join me for another fishing trip. The big ones are jumping. Don’t let them get away this time.

  Meet up at the usual place for details.

  —T.

  A little fishing trip was just what he needed to put all this madness behind him, and if he was lucky, he’d score enough of a catch to get Big Eddie off his back for good.

  Peter looked at his watch, then called up the schedule for Qatar Airways. He still had plenty of time to make the 4:30 flight to Baghdad. Shuffling through his various passports, he looked for the one that seemed the least dodgy out of the stack. He found one that didn’t look too bad, and booked himself a seat in first class as Jack Johnson.

  He closed the laptop and stood, stuffing it into his messenger bag. He turned toward the large screen that displayed the upcoming international departures, and spotted a man standing nearby, looking right at him.

  The man was unremarkable, on the youngish side of middle-aged but dressed older in a high-end navy-blue suit and a subtle, pricy tie. His shoes were spotless and his eyes were small and shrewd behind wire-rimmed glasses. He could have been any ordinary businessman waiting for a flight back to the head office, but his interest in Peter was unmistakable.

  He didn’t smell like either a thug or a fed. Too well dressed and paunchy, with soft clean hands.

  Peter couldn’t decide if it would be wiser to shake this guy, or call him out, but in the end he didn’t have to choose because the man came over to him.

  “Peter Bishop?”

  Peter narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

  “I have a business proposition for you,” the man said.

  He reached into an inner pocket and Peter flinched a little, even though he knew it was highly unlikely that the man had managed to bring a gun through airport security. Instead of a weapon, the man pulled out a thick envelope and handed it over. The envelope was unmarked except for an unfamiliar three-dimensional “M” logo in the upper-left corner.

  Judging from the weight and shape of the envelope, it contained cash.

  Lots of it.

  The man had his interest now, that was for sure.

  “My employer has authorized me to issue this advance, just for considering his offer. If you aren’t interested, you can put that in your pocket and walk away right now, no explanation required. If you are interested, well, there’s more where that came from. Plenty more.”

  “I’m listening,” Peter said, slipping the envelope into his messenger bag. “But I have to catch a flight in two hours.”

  “We’ll give you a ride in the company plane,” the man said. “You can meet with my employer on the way to your destination.”

  “I’m not headed to Cleveland, you know,” Peter said. “I’m flying international.”

  “We know where you’re going, Mr. Bishop,” the man said. “It’s not a problem.” He gestured to his left. “This way, please.”

  Peter frowned, still not entirely sure how to feel about this unexpected development. But he knew exactly how he felt about that envelope full of cash. And how Big Eddie would feel about it, too.

  He followed the man in the navy-blue suit.

  * * *

  The man led him to a gate at the far end of the terminal. There was no one at the desk, and the door was closed, but the man just opened it and motioned for Peter to enter. No one seemed to notice, or object to what they were doing, but it still seemed strange and somehow wrong, like they were being naughty.

  As they walked down the jetway, Peter could see a plane parked at the far end. It was larger than he had expected for a private jet—only slightly smaller than a standard commercial airliner. On the pristine white tail was the same logo he’d seen on the envelope full of cash.

  When they reached the door of the plane, the man motioned for Peter to go ahead. As soon as he did so, he was greeted by a compact, clean-cut and very fit male flight attendant who looked more like a triathlete. The attendant shut the door behind Peter without comment, leaving the man in the navy-blue suit out on the jetway.

  “Isn’t he coming with us?” Peter asked, looking back over his shoulder at the sealed door and feeling a small flicker of anxiety in his belly.

  “I’m afraid not,” the flight attendant replied. “This way please, Mr. Bishop.”

  Peter walked into the body of the plane, which was richly appointed with roomy leather seats and wooden tables polished to a deep espresso finish. There were fresh flowers and tasteful lamps and even a long, plush couch, complete with silk throw pillows. The carpet beneath Peter’s feet was as thick and soft as mink. The interior looked more like an expensive hotel lounge than any kind of vehicle.

  There was nobody there except for Peter and the flight attendant, but he could see that there was an additional section in the rear of the plane—one that had been curtained off.

  “So,” Peter said, frowning, “where’s this mysterious boss man I’m supposed to be meeting with?” He gestured toward the curtain. “In there?”

  “You’ll be joining him later,” the flight attendant said. “Meanwhile, just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  Not sure of what else to do, Peter took a seat in one of the big chairs. He looked around, then up at the flight attendant.

  “Um,” he said. “Don’t I need a seatbelt?”

  The man smiled like an indulgent parent.

  “Not for this flight, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink before we take off?”

  “Sure,” Peter replied. “Make it bourbon.”

  “Ice?”

  “Please.”

  The flight attendant nodded and disappeared behind the curtain.

  The chair was perhaps the most comfortable seat Peter had ever been in, and it was kind of hard to maintain any level of anxiety when he felt so good.

  I could get used to this kind of travel.

  The flight attendant reappeared carrying a smoked glass tumbler with a single large, perfectly clear ice cube and a generous knock of rich amber liquid.

  “Thanks,” Peter said, taking the drink.

  “Here’s the control for the entertainment system,” the flight attendant said, handing Peter a remote with more buttons than the dashboard of the plane. “Buzz me if you need anything.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Peter said.

  The attendant disappeared behind the curtain again, leaving Peter to his own devices. He set the remote on the table and took a sip of the bourbon. It was predictably fantastic—top shelf, like everything else on this plane—and added its own extra level of soporific comfort.

  The plane started off down the runway just as Peter was finishing his drink. He set the empty glass down on the table, and within seconds the flight attendant magically appeared to snatch it up, and then disappeared with it as the plane started gathering speed for take-off.

  The take-off was so smooth, Peter might not have even noticed he was airborne if his ears hadn’t popped.

  Now I can see why they don’t need seatbelts.

  He watched out the thick round window as the Manhattan skyline disappeared beneath the clouds, then started fiddling with the remote. A large screen slid silently up from the center of the table, displaying a dizzying array of entertainment options. Peter picked Cursed, a forgettable horror flick by the guy who had done Nightmare on Elm Street, and was sound asleep in his seat within minutes.

  * * *

  He woke with a start an unknown amount of time later, to a sickening volley of turbulence that shook the plane like an angry child. He gripped the armrests and looked out the window just in time to see a sizzling fork of lig
htning flash through the clouds inches from the metal hull.

  “Jesus!” Peter said, involuntarily groping for a seatbelt, even though he knew there wasn’t one. “Hey, flight attendant! What the hell is going on?”

  The attendant appeared from behind the curtain wearing what looked like a crash helmet. He walked right past Peter to the front of the cabin, where he pulled down a folding seat and strapped himself in.

  “Try to remain calm, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “It will all be over in a few minutes.”

  Another nasty bump and the plane bounced from side to side, and then dropped steeply.

  “Remain calm?” Peter asked. “Are you crazy?”

  Instead of answering, the flight attendant pushed a button that caused a partition to slide out from the wall about three feet in front of him, sealing Peter into his section.

  “What the hell?” Peter got up, fighting his way across the pitching and shaking cabin to the partition and banging on it with his fist. It was solid metal and didn’t budge. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Another vertigo-inducing drop flung him backward into the mysterious curtain. To his dismay, he discovered another solid metal partition right on the other side, slamming into it and cracking his head hard enough to see red.

  He was trapped and alone in this luxurious, high altitude coffin. Cursing himself for being suckered, he tried desperately to figure all the angles while trying to keep his feet under him.

  What the hell is going on here? he fumed. He was supposed to have some sort of meeting, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else on the plane. And why was he trapped like this? If it was an attempt to kill him, it was the most expensive, impractical, and unreliable assassination of all time. Might as well put snakes on the plane.

  So what’s this about?

  All thoughts were erased from his mind as the plane went into a sudden, harrowing plunge that had Peter convinced they were about to crash into the freezing ocean. He was knocked off his feet as the cabin was engulfed in darkness, leaving the flickering emergency lights as the only illumination.

  He lay there face down on the soft, expensive carpet with his arms thrown up over his head, waiting for the inevitable.

  Then there was a blinding flash of white light…

  …and just like that, it was over.

  It wasn’t that the plane had stabilized or leveled out. One second it was rocking like a ship on rough seas, and the next it was smooth as glass. The lights went back on, too. When Peter uncovered his face, the first thing that he saw was a pair of expensive black leather dress shoes, just inches from his nose.

  He looked up and saw a tall, familiar-looking older man in a dark suit.

  “Hello, Peter,” the man said, extending a large, weathered hand to help him to his feet.

  The man’s resonant baritone voice was even more familiar, but he still couldn’t seem to place him in any kind of context. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but one came out first.

  “Do I know you?”

  The man smiled, dark eyes bright and sharp.

  “We met when you were a child,” the man said. “Shortly after your… miraculous recovery. My name is William Bell. I am an old colleague of your father.”

  Peter squinted at the older man, thinking now that he might have seen him while he was in Florida, but before he could nail down a solid, specific memory, he was distracted by the dawning realization that the interior of the cabin seemed different, in a hundred small ways.

  The metal partitions were gone. The layout and position of the furniture was similar, yet subtly off. The color palette was still neutral, but with more cool tones than warm.

  There were no flowers.

  “Please,” Bell said. “Have a seat.”

  The older man eased his body slowly down into one of the cushy leather chairs, and gestured to Peter to take one opposite him on the other side of the polished, blond wood table.

  Peter sat and ran a finger over the surface. He was almost positive that the table had been dark wood when he first boarded the plane.

  His sense of unease increased when an unfamiliar female flight attendant appeared. She was slender and lovely, with a dark bob haircut and long brown legs flashing through the slit in her tight red skirt. He supposed she might just have been behind the curtain the whole time, but why?

  And where was the male flight attendant, who he’d last seen strapped into a folding seat that was no longer there?

  The woman carried a tray with coffee and all the accoutrements, which she set down on the table between them.

  “Thank you, Fabianne,” Bell said, filling a cup for himself and then a second one for Peter. “Cream or sugar?”

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, pushing his fingers through his hair. He looked out the window. Nothing but infinite darkness. “I need a minute.” Seconds later he asked, “What exactly is going on here? Why is everything… different?”

  “I realize that this all seems somewhat unconventional,” Bell said, sipping his black coffee. “But I assure you, everything will be explained in due time. In fact, I believe I have a lot of the answers you’ve been searching for most of your young life. But that’s only a fringe benefit to the offer I’m prepared to make to you tonight.”

  Peter picked up the coffee cup and drank it black to buy time to think, even though he didn’t really want any. His stomach was roiling with anxious acid and unanswered questions.

  “I want you to work for me at Massive Dynamic, Peter,” Bell said. “You see, under different circumstances, your father and I would have been partners in my current… endeavors. But certain weaknesses have unfortunately prevented that from happening. Weaknesses that you do not possess. You are smart, resourceful and flexible in your thinking, without being overly burdened by traditional morality. You could take your father’s rightful place in this corporation.

  “We are about to embark on an epic project that will change, well, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, everything. I mean everything. But in any such project, I need men of vision on my team.

  “I need men like you.”

  “But what kind of man am I?” Peter said doubtfully. “I’m nobody, Mr. Bell. I’m not a man of vision.”

  He wasn’t, was he? Peter thought about that. Maybe it was time to stop running, stop trying to scam the world in one score after another. If he accepted, he’d have enough money to pay off Big Eddie, and then some.

  Of course, money might not be enough anymore, now that Little Eddie was dead. No doubt the Scotsman blamed Peter for it. Probably better just to set that particular debt aside as unpayable.

  At least with anything less than Peter’s life.

  “I’ve watched you, Peter,” Bell said. “You’re brilliant. You have a perception unlike anyone else. I know what you’re capable of. After all, you are your father’s son.”

  Peter bristled at that. Any thought of taking Bell’s offer disappeared. Peter was a lot of things, but he was not that. Would never be that. He forced himself to relax, and loosen the hands he had balled into fists.

  “No dice,” he said. “I can’t take the job.”

  There was a long silence, as Bell stared at him. Peter wondered what was going on behind those eyes.

  “I won’t deny that I’m disappointed,” Bell said, and he asked, “Are you absolutely certain there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Look, I don’t care what you say,” he replied, “I don’t want any part of this.”

  “Very well,” Bell said, palms held out and open. “It’s your choice.”

  He nodded very slightly—so imperceptibly that Peter might not have noticed it if Fabianne hadn’t appeared beside him and jammed a hypodermic needle into the side of his neck.

  * * *

  When Peter woke up, he had a hangover the size of the Titanic, and felt as if he’d been dropped to the floor from a great height. His entire body felt bruised and achy. His head felt swolle
n and filled with metal shavings and broken glass. There was a weird taste in his mouth, like he’d been chewing on a cheap adhesive bandage.

  He had absolutely no memory of what he had been drinking to get him into this sorry state.

  What a waste of a good buzz.

  He took quick stock of where he was. It was a crummy, generic hotel room that could have been anywhere in the world. Then he discovered that he didn’t have time for a more comprehensive analysis that went beyond finding the toilet as quickly as possible.

  He threw up for what felt like a year, his poor beaten body wringing itself out like a rag. Once that was done, he flushed the toilet and sat there for a few minutes with his cheek resting against the lip of the bathtub, taking stock of his body and mind.

  Physically, he felt as if he’d been in—and lost—more than one fight, but he didn’t seem to have any serious wounds or injuries. No broken bones. He did have an eight-hundred-pound gorilla of a headache. He also felt dehydrated as hell, but, even though he was sorely tempted, he didn’t drink out of the tap, because he wasn’t sure what country he was in.

  Mentally, he wasn’t in much better shape. The last thing he could remember was being in the airport in New York City, and getting the email from Tarik.

  Baghdad? Am I in Baghdad?

  A quick search around the small room confirmed this hunch, revealing a few rumpled maps, pamphlets, and tourist guides to the city. It also revealed the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. A bottle of water with an Arabic label. He made short work of it, downing the entire bottle in two heroic swallows.

  The phone rang, making him jump. The harsh jangling sound made him feel as if he was being attacked by rats, and he answered it more out of self-defense than the desire to actually speak to anyone.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak that he barely recognized.

  “Peter, my friend!” It was Tarik. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. You sound like hell. Rough night last night, eh?”