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 his face. A loose floral button-down hangs off of his thin frame like the cigarette dangling limply from his lips, worn brown cargo shorts and grungy blue flip-flops completing the ragtag ensemble. After some slow back-and-forth it becomes apparent that he speaks only Thai, understands maybe five English words, but seems to know what’s happening as he motions them into the back of his songthaew while impatiently dragging their baggage behind him.
They lazily acknowledge his entreaties and plod behind him under the weight of their own bags, lack of sleep, and steamy heat. Sitting gratefully under the shaded canopy of the minibus they don the best disguises they can muster; sunglasses, hats, upturned collars, and downward gazes.
The vehicle lurches forward into the dense Bangkok traffic.
The group spend most of the trip gripping the metal railings and looking over each others’ shoulders from the narrow benches lining the sides of the small transport. Occasionally they exchange wide-eyed glances as the songthaew engages in narrow misses and death-defying escapes while aggressively speeding along the city streets.
After some time the structures around them grow smaller and more decrepit until finally they’re overtaken by lush green vegetation interspersed with tiny rural shacks made of earth, wood, and corrugated tin. Sometimes a smiling occupant stands outside, waving at them.
Eventually the dirt road becomes treacherous and the songthaew slows to a crawl as it maneuvers over deep, rain-carved crevasses and large boulders. Sometimes the minibus is brought to a stop while the driver gets out to plot the next few meters of terrain. A few times he asks for volunteers from the team to help guide him as he slowly eases the vehicle over the chaotic geometry.
The songthaew finally comes to a full halt as the chasms in the eroded path become too extreme for it to navigate. The driver motions for the team to grab their bags and follow him.
His flip-flops move gingerly over the jagged surface as he leads them forward. To everyone’s relief the packed-dirt road reasserts itself after a few minutes and then begins to narrow. Soon the team is walking single file behind the driver who is forging ahead with grim determination.
They can’t tell how long they’ve been walking like this. Somewhere between the clinging heat, shrill jungle noises, and vicious insects, Section B lose track of time. That’s when they suddenly emerge into a small clearing.
The vegetation in the circular patch has recently been hacked down, bright green stalks sticking up out of the ground naked and exposed. In the middle sits a sparse pyramidal structure made of long bamboo poles. A large black dinghy is positioned in the center. The puffy edge of the craft is lined with sturdy-looking anchor loops to which are tied thick black nylon ropes. These lead to the top of the structure where they’re attached to the bottom of what looks like a very large double-headed carabiner.
“Giant hanging plant,” remarks Brock, the sweltering heat culling the enthusiasm of his observation.
Except for a quiet grunt of acknowledgment from somewhere in the group, Dmitri’s fatigued smile and droopy nod are the only indication that anyone has heard, or that they care.
The driver turns around and with one hand hanging off the back of his neck he shoots a triumphant grin at the group. Tatty cigarette gripped tightly between yellow teeth he extends a thumbs-up with the other hand.
Exhausted, the group drop their bags at their feet.
The driver looks around expectantly, obviously unsure how to proceed. After a couple of minutes he begins to shift around nervously. Finally he yells something in Thai.
Almost immediately another voice returns his summons and in a few short seconds its owner emerges from the thicket to their left. He looks similarly aged to their driver but he’s a little taller and pudgier, balding on top, and in his casual brown slacks and crisp white shirt he would cut a more professional figure if it weren’t for the gold-rimmed aviator glasses and bright sarong slung casually over one shoulder.
“Welcome! Hello!” he exclaims as he waves enthusiastically at the group.
The members of Section B manage to blurt out an apathetic response. At this the newcomer plants himself wide-legged in front of them and assumes a broad, toothy smile. Swiveling his head from face to face, he nods and occasionally includes a spirited, “Hello!”
“Okay!” he says, clapping his hands together in conclusion. Turning abruptly to the leery driver he says something while simultaneously gesturing toward the team’s baggage. Then he points up to the top of the bamboo structure while delivering more instructions to the increasingly taciturn man.
After being shown a demonstration of the double carabiner’s hoisting mechanism, the driver grudgingly acquiesces and the pair proceed to load the Section’s baggage onto the lowered hook. Securing some of the larger items requires the use of bungee cords, ropes, and zip-ties found conveniently arranged on the floor of the dinghy. Eventually the bags are all covered in a black tarp, secured, pulled up, and suspended just below the top hook to create a dark and lumpy canopy.
Job complete and ostensible agreement fulfilled, the sweaty driver waves a hasty goodbye and swiftly beats a retreat back along the dirt path toward his waiting vehicle.
The team are once again approached by the grinning greeter.
“Okay!” he bursts out, sunglasses leaping on his face as he bounces over to the dinghy.
“You,” he says, pointing variously at each of them.
“Here.”
He sits down between two of the numerous handles lining the side of the boat. Tightly clasping the grips he turns to the Section and shouts, “Good!”
Then he jumps into the middle of the craft, crosses his legs, and plunks down onto boat bottom.
“Here!” — he bellows and slaps the material beside him — “Bad!”
He then jumps up and loudly slaps his own ass. “Bad!” he repeats.
“You!” he says again, this time reaching down into the vessel and pulling out a black life vest. Looking them each in the eyes to make sure they’re following him, the man demonstrates putting on and securing the flotation device. He then retrieves a black square package from the floor of the craft, extracts a black poncho from it, and uses it to completely cover himself.
“Good!” he shouts from somewhere inside the tiny makeshift tent. A moment later he emerges, still smiling.
“You,” repeats the man assertively to each member of Section B.
“Airplane,” he states, undulating his hand palm down as if it were gliding out of an open car window on the highway. With his other hand he points to the dinghy, then upward to the hook, then draws a straight line through the air to his hand-plane.
Removing his glasses to reveal dark, bloodshot eyes, the man continues to maneuver his flying hand while his other hand, palm up, moves in underneath.
“Water,” he explains, moving the lower hand in a circular motion.
“Boat,” he continues, extending the fingers of his airplane hand as he drops it down into the water hand, bringing them together with a startling clap.
“Okay!” he finishes with renewed zest, a hearty thumbs-up, and an enthusiastic look that communicates pride at an effective and well-delivered presentation.
Section B does not respond.
Without pause or concern the man quickly restores his aviators and moves around to the back of the bamboo structure, returning promptly with a Styrofoam cooler. Placing it gently in front of them he pronounces, “Food!”
He removes the lid to reveal a couple of stacks of plastic-wrapped triangles and eight plastic water bottles. Replacing the lid the man stands up, brings his hands up to his forehead as if in prayer, and bows deeply. With an unexpected suddenness he stands back up and with one final, “Okay!” he begins to walk back toward the same clump of jungle out of which he’d emerged.
“Wait!” shouts Dominic urgently. “What time is the airplane coming?!”
The man turns around and after some minor contemplation attempts to formulate an answer. Eventually he responds with, “Sleep!” while swiveling his arms down like an opening drawbridge.
Dominic blinks uncomprehendingly for a few moments.
“I sink ‘e mean night,” offers Mirabelle in a lifeless monotone.
Dominic acknowledges with an even less energetic, “Ah.”
At this the instructor nods, smiles, and quickly exits the area.
“How long until nightfall?” asks Elvis to no one in particular as he rummages inside the cooler.
Reaching reflexively for his mobile phone Dmitri responds, “About an hour.”
Elvis pulls out one of the cellophane-wrapped triangles and begins to peel it open. In a few moments he’s gotten to the contents which he holds up to his nose.
“Ham and cheese,” he judges, dark eyebrows sloped outward in disappointment.
Rebekah is next to extricate a disfigured sandwich and a soft bottle of warm water from the cooler. Standing in the lengthening shadows of the surrounding forest she unwraps her meal and examines it. The cheese could be processed American, glossy and soft. The ham looks similarly processed, so much so that the oddly pink circle might not actually contain any pig.
Scratching her hairline she nods defiantly and resolutely bites off a large piece. She continues to nod as she masticates, visibly considering the flavour and consistency of the thing in her mouth.
Concluding that she’d chewed enough, Rebekah swallows the large wad, painfully and slowly, followed by a sizeable swig from the squishy plastic bottle.
“I mean,” she says eventually with a lingering grimace of discomfort, “it probably won’t kill us.”
Seemingly convinced by her review, or maybe too tired and hungry to care, the rest of Section B plod over to the cooler to retrieve their own portions. Then, resting on vegetal stumps, standing in the cover of tall plants, or sitting on the shaded edge of the dinghy, they consume their soggy ham and cheese sandwiches, washing them down with tepid water infused with the taste of malleable plastic.
Clearing her second bite, Rebekah is the first to break the silence of the repast.
“What,” she says assertively, then pauses to massage her eyebrow with a tense hand. Slowly and sullenly pulling down the side of her face she finishes, “the hell are we doing here?”
A few moments of silence pass. Then with a gentle aplomb Brock responds, “Living the dream.”
Rebekah bursts into laughter, eyes shut tightly, firmly holding her sandwich as it flops around with her abdominal contractions.
As her reaction peters out she wipes the tears that have been welling at the corners of her eyes. Suddenly assuming a dour tone she looks Brock in the eyes.
“I’m really sorry,” she says with a raw, honest, vulnerable softness. Meeting the gazes of the rest of the group she continues, “to all of you. I had no business leading you into any of this. I really have no business playing secret agent. I’ve been performing a role. I’ve been acting. I’m a fraud.”
“Oh, Becks,” responds Dmitri with a saddened and disappointed waggle of the head. “Let me start by assuring you, and I think I’m speaking for everyone here when I say, that nobody thinks of you as a leader.”
Her eyebrows furrow slightly as she looks around the Section, seeking either denial or confirmation. Some of the group allow the claim to percolate for a few moments before unanimously gesturing their acceptance.
“We’re all big boys and girls here,” continues Dmitri, looking at the team around him, “and we’re here of our own volition. Well, maybe not so much Brock” — he shoots an inquisitive glance at Brock who returns a non-committal shrug — “but anyway this shit with Shindan affects all of us. Of course I can’t speak for anyone else but this is all a welcome departure from the kind of life I might’ve ended up in. I’m telling you this in case you were under the impression that I’m singularly motivated, okay?
“And before you sell yourself short,” he continues without waiting for Rebekah’s response, “it was you that put me on this path. At first I just sorta dismissed all that secret agent stuff but eventually it sunk in. I get the feeling that sometimes you go through the motions without really grasping their significance. Maybe your definition of being a secret agent is just too small and narrow.”
Without asking for further explanation Rebekah frowns and reluctantly accepts the possibility with a shallow, sideways nod.
“It could just be that,” adds Dominic as he replaces the cap on his bottled water, “we picked this up as adults and as outsiders. You’re basically the opposite so maybe, because of that, you take yourself a little too seriously.”
Rebekah motions with her head again, this time more assuredly.
“Can I add my two cents?” interjects Brock with a patient readiness.
Nodding her assent he continues, “I think you’ve managed to keep your secrets quite well, all things considered. Playing a role, as you put it, seems like it’s part of the job description. And if nothing else, some of your m.o.’s gotta count for something. Like commandeering those subs back in Cape Verde.”
Rebekah grins involuntarily at the sudden and vivid memory. After a few moments she recovers, sits upright, and bobs her head with singular determination. “You know,” she says with renewed vigour, “that paper with my parents’ name on it really fucked me up.”
“You don’t say,” remarks Brock with mild sarcasm.
Rebekah responds with her own weakly sarcastic smile and then continues, “They’d been warning me about stuff like this since I was a kid. It never materialized so I just laughed it off, just like I did with their precautions. And now, suddenly, because of my negligence my parents might be involved in something really dangerous. I’ve hidden information from you guys” — she shakes her head in slow disbelief — “and I probably gave someone information that I should’ve kept to myself.”
“Live and learn,” responds Brock with a half-smile and upturned eyebrow.
“Yeah,” she acknowledges and passes into silence.
The sun is illuminating the tops of the surrounding trees when Elvis breaks through the growing din of the darkening jungle. “Is anyone else kinda freaked out about how the plane is supposed to get us out of here?” he asks with audible concern.
“Yes,” responds Mirabelle with a nervous energy. “I sink if ‘e fly ‘ere and pick up ze boat,” she says, pointing up at the large carabiner above the dinghy, “we will crash into ze trees, maybe get kill.”
Looking around the small clearing Elvis agrees, “Right? How is a plane even going to be able to attach to that hook let alone pull us out of here in one piece? I don’t get this.”
“It does seem strange,” admits Dmitri as he looks around, trying to figure out how the feat will be accomplished.
About half an hour later a deep purple dusk settles into the sky above Section B as they wipe down and tidy up the site. Not long after, the sound of a flying engine can be heard dimly in the distance.
Wearing tense expressions, Section B sit along the edge of the dinghy, grasping the handles from beneath black ponchos, preparing at any moment to execute a planned bail out if the extraction begins to feel sketchy.
Soon the incoming sound resolves itself into the chop of large blades. Section B exchange open-mouthed expressions of comprehension as a helicopter appears overhead, spraying the area with a vicious downward gale and a harsh white spotlight.
From one side of the hovering aircraft a darkened figure tosses down four sturdy cables that terminate in closed hooks. The man above waves at the group, then makes exaggerated hugging motions as he interlinks his arms.
Working together, Brock, Dmitri, Elvis, and Dominic use a couple of the supporting bamboo struts to snap the dangling cables into the giant carabiner. Then they pull away most of the remaining poles as the helicopter picks up the slack on the cables.
A few moments later the agents of Section B are huddled inward into the black dinghy, black ponchos obscuring their presence as they’re pulled up and out of the clearing.
They skim the tops of trees as they glide over darkened jungle canopy. Suddenly emerging over inky water, the boat is lowered to within a few meters of the ocean’s surface as the helicopter continues to drag it through the spraying sea foam.
Finally, in the distance, distorted lights begin to flicker on the surface of the water. As the helicopter approaches, overboard lights flood the water and illuminate the ghostly underbelly of the Merle and a speedboat floating nearby.