“How about your brother?” asks Elvis, looking dourly at Dominic. “Tony?” responds the sizeable man. “You mean, like, transport us in his truck?” “Yeah, why not?” confirms Elvis, his newly manifested melancholy blunting the suggestion. Dominic considers the idea as he gazes at nothing in particular. Rebekah is consumed with destroying the erroneous bus tickets …

A hawk or possibly a falcon circles high overhead in the nearly cloudless sky. Towering trees shoot up around Section B, brown needles and green moss pad the ground beneath their seated bodies, sweet scents of pine and tiny forest flowers permeate their small circle. Muted sounds of faraway animals occasionally waft in on the …

“You see my problem here,” says the stern man sitting across from Section B. His bright orange turban hugs his head as it moves around to punctuate his words. The dark brown eyes set into his wide face stare at them intimidatingly, his tied and tucked beard lending a further gravitas to his countenance. The …

The next morning, with pastries and coffees in hand Dominic and Brock meet on the opposite side of the ship to observe the sun as it rises in the same spot it had set the night before. “They told us they wouldn’t be going straight,” notes Brock. Looking up at the circling seabirds Dominic adds, …

Rebekah, Elvis, and Dominic are sitting hunched over something at the breakfast table as Brock approaches. For a moment his line of sight is blocked by the flowers that had been pushed to one side but he can soon see the sheet of paper that they’re focused on. As he gets even closer he sees …

“I’m a little nervous,” admits Brock as he stares fixedly at the white enclosure. “Perfect,” replies Dmitri while attaching a final cable from a laptop computer to a port at the back of the pod. Mirabelle observes quietly from a chair against a wall, leaning back casually with a lit cigarette held loosely in one …

“My mozer,” begins Mirabelle, “say zis to me. Zat maybe we are relative to Louis Antoine de Saint-Just.” Section B stare at her blankly. “You know Maximilien Robespierre maybe?”, she asks hopefully as she taps her cigarette over the small ashtray. Their expressions morph into ones of puzzlement. “La Révolution française? ‘ave you ‘eard of …

“Wait,” says Brock with a perplexed expression on his face. “What do you mean you think you worked for the Russian mafia?” “I don’t really know, not for sure,” replies Dmitri, hoisting his shoulders up into a shrug. “But I know enough Russian. And when I heard the new boss’ bosses calling themselves the new …

Golden reflections of the rising sun ripple across blazing swells as they glide past the incandescently white vessel. A couple of seabirds circle overhead in wide, lazy arcs. A single puffy white cloud hangs casually on the horizon. From all sides come the whooshing churn of water, the fresh briny smell of the ocean, the …

The rendezvous point is near the same temple complex in which Brock had spent some time recently, erroneously assuming he was alone. Given OpTwo’s revelations the Section don’t bother splitting up and instead head wearily to their destination as a group. They’re met there by a darkly-tanned man with a serious expression pressed deeply into …

“… why it’s called deterministic,” Dmitri says to Elvis with a huff, bags piled under both arms. “That’s the only way I can think of to tell us from the machines these days.” Labouring under his own load, Elvis asks, “So people get more like thirty percent and computers get twenty-five?” “Yeah,” replies Dmitri, “on …

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asks Brock with concern as they approach the scene of the Shindan takedown. A small oil slick occupies the spot where Joanne’s car sat. “Yeah, just don’t hit me too hard,” replies Rebekah resolutely. “Make it look real, just not too real.” They walk a few more …

The crimson lights of the Royal Thai Police strobe over the nighttime scene as foot patrol, canine units, and bomb disposal personnel swarm the heavily secured train yard. At the third carriage of one train the brilliant light of a welding torch emits sharp sparks as it cuts into the thick lock of the shipping …

“You’re sure that you didn’t see a woman in a bright yellow dress walk out of the building?” asks Dominic. Rebekah and Dmitri shake their heads. “And no one like that walked by you?” Dominic asks Mirabelle and Elvis. They both shake their heads and shrug. The handwriting on the small pink sticky note in …

The opened package lies on the upright end of the rusty metal drum, the paper wrapper containing a loose pile of dark and woody grounds. The blanched red string lies coiled nearby, one end terminating at the dented metallic teapot. Through the murky window of the hut the shapes of two men in orange robes …

It’s around noon when the retrieval team returns, almost all hobbling into the courtyard under the weight of multiple bags and luggage. Only Mirabelle has a single suitcase, one on wheels that she’s dragging behind her. Opposite the group, the monk in the casually-worn orange robe is saying something quietly to Brock and Elvis. The …

They travel in pairs, winding and zigzagging through the streets of Bangkok while casting paranoid glances around them. Brock walks silently with Elvis, Rebekah is with Dmitri, and Mirabelle with Dominic. At least one person on each team knows exactly where they’re headed. As the muggy morning sets in, the last damp couple arrive in …

A lone beam of sunlight bisects the small eatery of the New Siam Guest House. Seated well out of the beam’s path is Dominic, perusing a folded newspaper in one hand while bringing a small cup of black coffee to his lips with the other. Today he’s wearing a loose button down with a Japanese …

Mirabelle follows Medic down a poorly-lit foot path hedged in between shanties and a narrow canal. She moves swiftly and silently beneath the conical spotlights. In between them she returns to a casual stroll that matches Medic’s. He doesn’t show any suspicion of being followed but she maintains her distance anyway. He’s already stopped a …

“…until I see it for myself,” finishes Medic as he steps through the door of his room at the New Siam Guest House. Holding the door open for him is The Handler, shades atop a courteous smile. Both move casually through the muggy Bangkok night toward the lobby stairs. They descend to find Elvis, Dmitri, …

The Handler, Medic, and Elvis step sluggishly out of the tuk-tuk and into the still, humid heat of Bangkok. Their trip from the train station had been a dizzying blur of chaotic traffic and dangerously sharp corners that threatened to flip over the motorized tricycle and its occupants. Medic felt as alarmed as Elvis appeared …

A heavy peach mist lies over the rice paddies as the black shapes of farmers in straw hats make their way through the glistening mud. Behind them, a wobbly yellow orb boils up slowly out of the eastern horizon. An idling water buffalo makes a surprise close-up as it flashes by in the window of …

After strolling leisurely along the ocean-side avenue the couple in white turns west into the city, followed closely by The Handler and Medic. The new arrivals walk a few blocks to a large public square with thick twisting trees and an ornate, permanent kiosk selling snacks. The couple turn left into a three-storey white and …

Along with the heat and the tropical flora, Mindelo has the feel of some city in the West Indies. Surrounding it, the sharp crags give everything else the appearance of a barren wasteland. On the beaches, the volcanic rock metamorphoses into glistening sand that slides into a turquoise sea. Sitting on a glistening beach and …

Although he finds it difficult to understand why, every day Medic becomes more comfortable with the whole situation, lingering doubt and questions subtly transmute into proactive involvement with the mission. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get more info on the Academy?” he asks The Handler after a few days of growing restlessness. The Handler holds …

Fast-forward a few days to the middle of the Atlantic. Once he got his sea legs, the constant rocking of the ocean became just an annoyance for Medic. Early on he noticed that The Handler also got a little green in the face a few times. In fact, the more he observed her the more …

Medic slowly regains consciousness as pain and nausea creep in. With eyes still closed, he tries to remember the previous night. He’d been out drinking by himself, took an unusual shortcut through the park, met some odd characters, then crawled home and into bed. Right? No, wait; that was a few nights ago. What happened …

The Dockside Lounge is an anachronistic relic from some time in the eighties. Struggling neon signs and a heavy layer of greasy dust on the fake tropical decor are enhanced by faded and peeling posters for beers and cigarettes that haven’t existed for decades. The Handler leads Medic past a minuscule but packed dance floor, …

“So … Brock, is it?” she asks, offering an outstretched hand in greeting. She’s still mesmerizing with her hair pulled back, her smooth bronzed skin plunging into an elegant black turtleneck beneath a long black overcoat. His own generic blue button-down and rumply old brown blazer feel embarrassingly inadequate. “Most people just call me Medic,” …

The chilly mist of the gray morning wraps itself around her as she stands leaning against the weathered brick corner of the building, legs crossed casually, coat unbuttoned, mobile phone in one hand, coffee in the other. She taps out a response to Medic’s email, starting off by chiding him for using his real name …

Medic wakes slowly and painfully. He doesn’t look at the clock but it feels like the better part of an hour has elapsed before he manages to roll out of bed, still fully clothed, and stumble toward the bathroom. A sudden and powerful wave of nausea grips him as he approaches the toilet. Salivating and …

Medic turns unsteadily into the park, hoping that the fresh air will help. He’d set out to drink, to drown, to smoke, to forget, to leave behind the mundane if even for a little while. So far it’s been “mission (more than) accomplished”. In the same spirit he’s decided to take a night stroll through …

As a responsible “citizen journalist” I do my best to research a topic before I post about it. Usually I’ll focus on a subject for a few days, sometimes a week, occasionally longer, but there’s one area of research that I’ve pursued incessantly for years. It’s all based on a collection of loosely organized documents, …