by L. T. Ryan
He looked around, noting the modern aesthetic. He had noticed the same thing when he first arrived in Nepal. In fact, he found the same to be true in the entire city of Kathmandu. Surprising anachronisms embedded within ancient architecture, customs, and traditions.
The iPhone he had turned off and stowed away since the last time he passed through the walls of the airport buzzed in his hand. He swiped at the device to unlock it and launched the email application. He scrolled through dozens of messages, deleting each one as he went.
Junk. More junk. More junk.
Finding nothing of importance, he checked the voicemail log. Six messages from Griff. He had thought about Griff often during the long stretches of silence that accompanied the trek into the remote regions of the country. Griff, Khat, Fezz and, of course, Anja. Although he had only known Griff a short time — a fraction of the time he’d known Fezz and Khat — they had formed a bond. Partly because they had shared an interest in exploiting computer systems and partly because of what they had gone through together. Like the unbreakable bond that he, Fezz, and Khat had formed in battle, Griff had been there for him through hell and back. Well, through hell anyway.
Blake touched the screen to play the latest of the voice messages. He pressed the phone to his ear.
“Hey buddy, it’s me. Again. Just—”
The audio cut out and the phone rattled. Blake looked at the screen. Incoming call.
Griff.
“Hey buddy, it’s me,” Griff started.
“You just said that,” Blake interrupted.
“Huh?” Griff paused. “It’s me. Your long-lost friend. Ya know, digital mastermind, playboy extraordinaire.”
Blake had only spoken with Griff a few times over the previous eight months. Not that he didn’t want to talk to him, or Fezz, or Khat. It was that he found it easier to compartmentalize the past if the reminder wasn’t always present. But it was nice to hear Griff’s voice, which, he noticed, had become more strident since they had first met.
“What’s up, Griff?”
“Where the hell are you, Mick? I’ve been calling you for days.”
Hearing his nickname stirred Blake. It had been a while since anyone called him that. “I’ve been traveling a bit. Clearing my head. That sorta thing.”
“And you don’t call me back,” Griff rumbled. “Is it ‘cause I’m Black? It’s ‘cause I’m Black, isn’t it, you racist ginger ass?”
An errant smile overtook Blake’s face. He came close to bursting out with a full-on laugh. Since he had been traveling, he had met no one with whom he could share the crass, twisted humor common between him and his former teammates. And Griff had been spending too much time with Fezz and Khat.
“You know I’m an equal opportunity hater, Griff. I don’t like you very much.”
“You love me. Seriously Mick, where ya at?”
“Kathmandu.”
“Ah, Kathmandu. That’s really, really where I’m going to,” Griff sang.
Blake didn’t respond. He knew the song, but encouraging Griff was not in his plans.
“Bob Seger? Come on,” Griff said. “But where are you, really?”
“Sitting at home. Watching the Golden Girls. What do you want Griff?”
“I’ve got a proposition for you. Hear me out.”
Blake spoke over him. “Here we go. I’m not interested in the proposition, Griff.”
“Hold up, brother. Listen. I’ve gotta go out to Vegas. They’re sending me out to poke around the DEF CON conference. The DEF CON conference, Mick. At the Venetian. I know how much you love smart turds with lots of teenage angst and too much time on their hands and I thought…”
Blake groaned.
“No. Really. There’s gonna be some great seminars. A chance to keep a leg up in the game. Maybe put a few kids in their place. Ya know what I mean?”
Once upon a time, Blake would have jumped at the chance. The biggest hacker conference in the country would have had a lot to offer his former self. But not anymore.
“First, saying ‘DEF CON conference’ is redundant. And I appreciate the offer, Griff, seriously I do. But I’m gonna sit this one out. Anyway, I’m sure the CIA wouldn’t want me involved.” Blake surprised himself for uttering the acronym. He couldn’t remember ever saying those three letters out loud. Especially on a cell phone. Normally, he would refer to his former employer as the Agency or not at all.
“Come on, Mick, you wouldn’t be there in any official capacity. Just a vacation. You’ve been hanging around, doing God knows what. You probably are watching the Golden Girls. And this is a chance to get out. It’ll mostly be mingling and whatnot. And drinking. Tons of booze, Mick. Think about it, will ya?”
“Okay, I’ll think about it, Griff.”
“Great. It’s in three days, so don’t think for long. Call me later.”
“Will do,” Blake lied. “Later.” He hung up.
Blake dug inside himself but couldn’t find any trace of the love he once had for the art of computer hacking, social engineering, or even the entire field of spy craft or special operations. Not after everything that had happened.
He had pulled the trigger when he knew he shouldn’t.
He had made mistakes he thought he wouldn’t.
He was no longer sure what he was doing, where he was going, or why he was in Nepal.
He looked down at the ticket resting on his knee. KTM to DOH. DOH to CPT. Cape Town International Airport. He picked up the ticket and began flicking it against his arm with a rhythmic beat. His body was motionless. As was often the case, the more still Blake’s body, the more chaotic his mind.
He sprung up, put his phone in his pocket, and headed off toward the ticket counters.
Time to go home.
4
“Is this it?” The Uber driver called back to Blake.
“This is fine.” Blake called up the app and entered a gratuity. The app asked him to enter a rating for the driver. He touched the icon for the maximum rating. Five stars.
Blake jumped out and dragged his bags from the back seat. The car drove off, leaving Blake standing on the side of the affluent Alexandria street. Parked cars pointing in both directions lined the road.
He had entered an address that was about a half block away from his own. Old habits, he guessed. He lugged his bags along the row of immaculately kept townhouses, a world away from the open expanses of the Himalayas. Even the air smelled different. Polluted. He had never noticed it before. But he was still glad to be there.
As he approached his home, he could see the Dodge Challenger he left parked on the street, in front of his door, had accumulated a thick coat of pollen and dust. Several parking tickets decorated the windshield under the driver’s side wiper blade.
Blake dropped his bags and ran his finger over the hood of the car, leaving a thin, shiny streak. He walked into the street, toward the driver’s side, and saw the bright yellow boot affixed to the front wheel. He had expected that would happen before he left, but decided it would be better than leaving the car in a lot or trying to find someone to move the car twice a week while he was gone. What he didn’t see, at least not right away, was the deep gouge that ran along the entire side of the car. He ran his hand along the serrated groove.
Bastards.
Blake let out a defeated chuckle. Finding out that someone had keyed his Challenger was a fitting end to the longest day in history. A day that had started in Kathmandu over fifty-two hours earlier. Through several layovers and cancelled flights, Blake had inched his way closer to Dulles. During the last leg of the flight, he had half-expected an emergency landing in the Atlantic to drag out the trip that much longer.
Blake humped his bags up the stairs and rested them on the stoop. He punched his code into the lock and the familiar robotic response greeted him. He swung the door open. The warm, stagnant air met him at the threshold.
He walked in and dropped his bags, glimpsing himself in the mirror. He leaned in and swiped his f
ingers over his cheeks and through his beard. His hair had grown long, not just over the last few weeks, but in the eight months since he had last had a haircut. He looked more like an animal than a man. And he had lost weight while he was away. He could see it in his face. At least he hadn’t lost muscle tone — the harsh mountainous region had made sure of that. In fact, he thought he looked more muscular now than when he left. More defined. Although he conceded that it may have just been the style of the tight Under Armour compression shirt that made it appear his shoulder, arms, and chest muscles were about to rip through the fabric.
Normally, Blake would have taken the next several minutes to clear the three-story townhouse, checking every room for any signs that something had been moved or that someone had been there while he wasn’t. Not that he didn’t consider doing it, it’s just that he ultimately decided he would much rather inspect the couch cushions with his rear-end. Besides, while it was once a simple task for Blake to determine if anything was out of place—thanks to an obsessive compulsion that everything be in its designated spot—his routine had become vague over the previous months. And having been gone for so long, he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyway. Especially if someone had the intention of covering their tracks.
Instead, Blake picked up the remote control, stretched his legs along the couch, flicked on the TV and, within seconds, succumbed to sleep.
5
Dr. Benjamin Becher pulled his knees up to take the pressure off his back. He had been lying on the table for some time but wasn’t sure how long. Enough time to predict the interval at which the fluorescent lights would flicker. Accompanied by their tinny tick. As pedestrian as they were, Becher ranked these buzzing and ticking gas-filled tubes as the most important feature in the high-tech facility. Without them, the windowless room would have been shrouded in complete darkness, save a few blinking LEDs embedded in the control panels of various pieces of medical equipment.
Becher wasn’t a medical doctor. Not a physician, technically. He was a preeminent geneticist, an expert in human physiology. And as a patient, he had become intimately familiar with most equipment in the room.
“That should do it, Ben.” The first thing Dr. Ursel had said in the last half-hour. Ursel grasped the tube and twisted the connector, which unlocked the tube against the catheter protruding from Becher’s chest.
Ancel Ursel was the corporate physician. He wasn’t leading a research project or developing any new medical technology. He was on hand to care for the upper echelon of the company’s cadre of executives and scientists. Becher could have done it himself, but he appreciated Ursel’s help in administering and monitoring the treatments. Access to the best. One of the many perks of working for Techyon.
Dr. Benjamin Becher fit square in that category of the best. The best of the best, in fact. As one of the first to sign on to the newly minted Techyon Scientific Division, Becher had the most seniority of anyone, including his boss, Sebastian Roberts. Becher could have risen to the top. He didn’t hold a Nobel prize like Roberts did, but he had no interest in bureaucracy. Only in science.
In the beginning, there were only a few. A small group of visionaries. They had given him an extreme amount of latitude to conduct his work, with the funding to match. And that much had not changed at least. The head of several highly secretive projects, Becher felt he had only scratched the surface of what was possible.
“Let’s look at the number.” Ursel scrolled through a series of graphs displayed on a laptop connected to a machine attached to Becher by a bundle of leads and electrodes.
“Let’s,” Becher said. He already knew what they would show.
Ursel had a funny way about him. An awkward approach to conversation. Out of touch with non-medical topics. But Becher rather enjoyed the man, and he was happy Ursel had also been one of the people to move from Tel Aviv to the new United States facility a few months prior.
“Let me guess,” Becher said. “I’m dying.”
Ursel sighed. “You know I don’t sugarcoat Ben and I’ve told you before. The treatments are helping, but I just don’t know how long it will matter. I’m confident it will buy you some time, but it’s programmed into your DNA. There’s only so much you can expect. It’s brilliant work, what you’ve done. It’s a huge advancement in stem cell therapy, but for you… right now… the answer is yes. I’m sorry, Ben, but you’re almost out of time.”
“That’s not acceptable.” Becher barked. “That’s exactly what I need. Time.” He didn’t mean to direct his outburst at Ursel. It wasn’t Ursel’s fault. Becher meant to direct his outburst at the rest of the universe. Whatever grand force strung the whole thing together.
“Ben,” Ursel said. His inflection transformed the single word into an entire phrase that bore the message, “Take it down a notch.”
Becher was aware of the limitations of the treatment he had developed. He knew that his own stem cells, harvested from his own bone marrow, were programmed to persist despite the condition that was slowly causing his heart muscle to atrophy. But he had the solution. A solution he couldn’t explain to Ancel Ursel.
“Whatever we can do to buy some time, I’ll do it, alright?” Becher said. “Doesn’t matter if it’s made worse in the long term. That will be moot when I get what I need. I am so close. I know you don’t understand yet, but you will. You’ll see. It will be a miracle is what it will be. Hell, it already is.”
Becher caught himself and pulled back before he had said too much. Though he was sure that Ursel took his words as the ramblings of a desperate person. Even after everything Ursel had seen come out of the Techyon labs, he had seen nothing like this.
“There are years of discoveries to be had. Advancements we haven’t dreamed up yet. And I’m going to be there for them. I’m going to live so I can make sure that those things happen. I promise you.” Beads of sweat formed on Becher’s forehead as he spoke.
“I hope you do, Ben,” Ursel said, his bedside manner on full blast, “and I’ll do whatever I can to help you, you know that. The important thing is that you stay calm. Avoid stress. Stay hydrated. And get some sleep if you can.” Ursel stood up from the stool and turned to leave. “I’ll see you back in a week.”
Becher hopped off the table and fastened the buttons of his shirt over the plastic port embedded in his thoracic cavity. He began looping his necktie into the usual Windsor knot.
With both hands, he grabbed either side of an EKG monitor mounted on a tall chrome stand next to the table. With a grunt, he pulled, tipping the contraption. It crashed to the ground and broke into several pieces. He kicked the carcass of the machine until another large piece broke off and flew across the room.
Then Dr. Benjamin Becher straightened his tie, grabbed his jacket, and went back to work.
6
Bang, bang, ring. Bang, bang, bang, ring.
The initial knock woke him, but the rhythm of the knocking and doorbell ringing garnered no alarm or concern. Despite being half asleep, he trusted that anyone who posed a danger wouldn’t be knocking.
Blake lurched into a seated position and opened one eye. The light streamed through the slits in the closed blinds. The living room was eerily still, except for the TV mounted above the mantle of the white-bricked fireplace, which played an old re-run of The Facts of Life.
Ugh. Worse than the Golden Girls.
Blake picked up the remote and flicked off the TV.
Bang, bang, ring.
He didn’t know how long he had napped, but figured it wasn’t long. At least it was still daylight. He checked his watch.
6:04 AM.
Blake’s groggy brain took a moment to accept he had slept straight through the afternoon and night.
“Hang on.” Blake’s voice cracked.
He pulled himself up and walked toward the front foyer. Reaching under the thin table, positioned against the wall under a mirror, he slid the Glock 9mm from the holster he had screwed into the underside of the table. He tucked it into his wai
stband at the small of his back. Better safe than sorry.
Bang, bang.
“Hang on,” Blake said, this time with blatant authority.
He peered through the peephole and smiled at the image relayed through the tiny convex lens. The giant head of his friend and former teammate filled the entire frame. Blake unlocked the door and opened it.
“Jesus, Mick. What? Were you sleeping? It’s six o’clock.” Blake could feel Fezz looking him over as he pushed his way inside. “Rough night?”
“I don’t remember,” Blake quipped.
Fezz looked down at Blake’s feet.
“Did you sleep in your shoes?”
Blake just stared at him, not wanting to award him a response.
“Come here.” Fezz wrapped his arm around Blake and slapped him on the back twice. Any harder and he could have knocked the wind out of him. Blake did the same. “Got any coffee in this joint?” Fezz asked as he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Blake followed. He could use some himself.
“Shit, Mick. How long has it been? Six months?”
“Eight,” Blake said. He switched on the Keurig and pulled out the plastic reservoir to fill it.
“Eight months. Damn. You look… good,” Fezz said, with an obvious lack of authenticity. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
Fezz motioned to the pans and other kitchen items laid out on a towel next to the sink, as if set out to dry but never put away.
“I’ve been busy,” Blake said.
Fezz took a seat on a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen. He rested his arms on the granite countertop.
“Apparently you have, brother, because Griff has been calling you for days. He’s headed to the airport to catch his flight out to Viva Las Vegas. Wasn’t sure if you had changed your mind about going with him. I told him I’d stop in.”
“I’m not going to Vegas, Fezz.” Blake replaced the filled reservoir, clamped down the handle on the coffee pod, and started brewing. “Nothing good can come of it.”