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 tiny, secluded temple courtyard with a large Bodhi tree growing through its centre. Taking one last look behind them, Rebekah and Dmitri take a seat on one of the stone retaining walls and wipe the sweat from their brows. Both of them are visibly jittery. An immobile Elvis sits staring stone-faced into the ground beside an anxious Dominic who is flanked by a pensive Brock. Mirabelle sits off to the side looking unconcerned.
“We have to go back,” opens Rebekah assertively. “Everything’s back at the boo. The bag, the equipment … everything.”
“Now wait just a second,” counters Dominic. “We need to think this through. If they followed us along the river then they’re probably waiting for us back at the guest house. They’re probably ready for us at Shindan too. Fuck. This is a fucking nightmare.”
“Yeah no shit,” replies an exasperated Rebekah. “I mean, what the fuck? They’re fucking shooting at us?!”
Brock leans forward slightly. “You’ve never been shot at before?” he asks with a calm that surprises him.
“No!” she answers with irritation. “Why would we have been shot at?”
“What she means,” jumps in Dmitri, “is that being a secret agent implies not getting noticed, which includes not getting shot at. Up until now we’ve been pretty good at that. For the most part.”
“Right, right,” acknowledges Brock. After a brief pause he asks, “So what’s next? What’s the plan?”
“We don’t have one,” responds Dominic.
“Yeah, this is the backup,” adds Dmitri. “This is the bug out plan, option omega.”
“We didn’t sink we need it,” adds Mirabelle with a mild scowl. “Especially not even before we begin.”
“Okay,” acknowledges Brock. “Well, to me this looks like a setback. If Mira’s willing to scout we should be able to get back to the guest house to get our stuff.”
The group considers Brock’s suggestion.
“I don’t think we should all go,” interjects Dominic. “Elvis is probably better off staying here. And someone should stay with him.”
Elvis lifts his eyes slowly, nods gently, and returns his distant gaze to the ground.
“Mira?” asks Brock as he swings his head to look at her. “Can you do it?”
After a moment of coy hesitation she replies, “Yes, I do it. But first I need to find cigarette. Mine ‘ave too much water.”
“Sounds reasonable,” he replies and turns back to the group. “So after resupplying, Mira scouts ahead and signals the all-clear. While the bags and equipment are retrieved she continues to monitor the area. After that, everyone splits up and takes different routes back here.”
“We have a few prepaid cell phones back at the guest house,” adds Dmitri. “Until then Mira’s going to be on her own, okay?”
“D’accord,” replies Mirabelle laconically.
“Who’s staying with Elvis?” asks Rebekah with anxious urgency.
“I haven’t unpacked my bag yet. There’s not much in there anyway. Should be easy,” offers Brock.
“Okay,” she responds, standing abruptly as Brock hands her his room key. “Let’s do this.”
The assembled retrieval team hurriedly leave the small courtyard while intently discussing covert scouting signals and surveillance timings, leaving Brock and Elvis alone in the steamy, muted din of the small sanctuary.
Brock takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet fragrance of some hidden exotic flower carried on the hot breeze. Unseen birds trill a bright melody as drifting dust gives body to shafts of bright sunlight. Somewhere in the distance, a deep and gentle bell sounds.
Some time passes.
Finally, Brock turns to Elvis and asks, “How’re you doing?”
Shaking his head meekly as he struggles for words, Elvis finally responds, “Not great.”
“If it helps,” says Brock , “I’m a little freaked out too.”
“It doesn’t,” replies Elvis despondently.
“Sorry,” apologizes Brock. For the first time since they’ve met he starts to feel like he might be talking to the genuine Elvis, the one beneath the hokey persona.
More time passes.
Slowly recollecting himself, Elvis asks, “How did you do that anyway?”
“Do what?” responds Brock.
“The way you just took over, drove the boat, got us all to the dock. Like you’d been doing it all your life.”
Brock pauses a moment to reflect.
“I don’t know,” he concludes. “Like automatic pilot, I guess. I somehow knew what I had to do and then I just sort of did it.”
Quietly, Elvis notes, “Maybe that’s your thing.”
Brock considers the proposal. Another pause in the conversation passes before Elvis asks in a more energized tone, “So what made you come back last night?”
“A few things Mira said to me. Changed my outlook,” replies Brock, scratching his temple and wiping collecting sweat from his brow. “I mean, it took a while on account of the language differences but we got there eventually,” he explains.
“In Mira’s words, it’d be” — he produces air quotes and badly mimics a French accent — “‘obscene and unscientific‘ not to expect the kinds of things we’ve encountered. I got to see some of what she was talking about this morning but it was her demonstration, maybe more her explanation, that brought me around. She suggested that I forget words like psychic or ESP. Bullsheet,” he concludes in another bad imitation of French.
“Oh?” asks Elvis alertly.
“Yeah. Forget superstitious language. Whatever it is, am I seeing it with my own eyes? Am I experiencing it? And is it reproducible?”
Elvis nods.
“But what is it that I’m seeing?” asks Brock rhetorically. “What if it’s just a matter of being better at picking up subtle queues from the environment? Maybe the unconscious lends a helping hand, maybe the autonomic nervous system. Maybe it’s about having better access to resources than the average person, so to speak. And how much does it matter if it works?”
Elvis chuckles slightly. “Dmitri said something like that when we first met,” he says. “For me it wasn’t a big stretch. In martial arts we talk a lot about chi and energy flow. Being able to control a psi wheel was like, yeah, okay, I get it.”
“Can you do anything else?” asks Brock.
“Hang on,” instructs Elvis as he closes his eyes and pulls one hand back, palm facing Brock. After a few moments he reopens his eyes and with a sudden exhalation of air, thrusts the open palm toward Brock. A brief moment later Brock feels a dull and painless thud land against his shoulder, like a gentle blast of condensed air.
“Wow!” says Brock, holding his shoulder, amazed. “I felt that!”
“I shouldn’t have to use my hand,” replies Elvis reluctantly.
“If you say so,” says Brock, smiling dismissively. For a moment he rubs his shoulder with mild astonishment and then, leaning in, asks, “Hey, Elvis, why are you here?”
“Dmitri asked me to come. Plus, adventure,” he replies with certainty. “Studying to become a doctor wasn’t for me. My parents, they mean well but they’re stuck in some old ways. When Dmitri showed me what was possible it changed my world, you know?”
Brock nods.
“When he asked for my help I was sure I was ready,” finishes Elvis.
“How’re you feeling now?” asks Brock.
“Not so ready,” responds Elvis with a pleading smile. “I froze out there, completely useless. Embarrassing, actually. You’re gonna have to give me some pointers.”
“As soon as I have some I will,” says Brock with a firm nod.
Just then, he notices a shadow slide over the ground between himself and Elvis. Looking up he sees a stout, stubble-headed Buddhist monk, expansive smile accompanying a bright orange robe slung over one shoulder.
He looks like a broader and hairier version of similar devotees Brock has seen around the city. With an upbeat tone and in flawless North American English the monk says, “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”
Brock and Elvis both stare silently at him.
“Oh, jeez, sorry!” exclaims the wide-faced monk, extending a hand. “Name’s Kevin.”