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 slightly chilly breeze.
“Money, ideology, coercion, and ego,” explains Rebekah, stretching out her legs as she leans backward into her propped-up bag. “Old but reliable.”
“How could you tell?” asks Elvis, reclined near her in a similar position.
“I mean,” she says with a brief nasal snort, “the guy just reeked of it. You must’ve picked up on it. Just a little bit?”
“It was hard not to notice,” he admits. “I guess what I mean to say is how were you so sure he wanted more money?”
With directness Rebekah replies, “If he was serious about turning us over to the feds then why would he drag us into his office like that? Just us and him? He should’ve put us in a holding cell or some secure area until the big boys arrived.”
“Huh,” remarks Elvis, “and you don’t think he’s called them since?”
“He’d have to explain how we escaped,” opines Rebekah. “Questions would have to be answered. Evidence would have to be concealed. Security footage would have to be scrubbed. People might have to be silenced. That’s a lot of work.”
“It would never occur to me to think that way,” he observes forthrightly.
She cocks her head to one side, a corner of her mouth pulling into a curious smile as she asks, “In what way?”
“Like, devious,” he says, a direct but vulnerable honesty in his eyes. “To plan stuff like that in my head. To imagine these scenarios and use them to my advantage.
“How do you do that?” he continues, squinting.
“Me?” she asks, visibly taken aback.
“Uh, yeah,” responds Elvis cautiously. “You know, the way you got us out of there.”
“Oh, well, I mean, devious, is maybe the wrong word,” she responds haltingly. “Observant maybe?”
“I didn’t mean it to come across that way,” he reassures her pleadingly. “I actually kind of admire that about you. I’d like to be able to do that.”
“You might want to reconsider,” replies Rebekah coolly. “Actions come with reactions. You know” — she uses her thumb to point to herself — “personal experience. And there are usually other ways to get what you want. You’d be surprised at how often the word please works.”
“But not this time,” notes Elvis.
“Not this time,” she confirms with a genuine smile. “I’ve dealt with people like that before. Worse, actually.”
“So how do you get that kind of confidence?” he asks genuinely.
“Practice,” she replies with a wink.
Just then Dmitri stands from the nearby tree stump he’d been occupying and motions for the team to come over. They do so at a leisurely pace.
The communication equipment is partially obscured by dense ferns but the tiny dish rises above them and aims upwards, past the deciduous seedlings and soaring trees, into the clear blue dome above. The open space on the side of the hill provides an expansive vista of mixed foliage pressed up against the lapping turquoise waters of the Pacific.
The Port Authority buildings are visible, as is the main road along which they’d recently walked. After only a few minutes they stopped and decided to formulate a strategy rather than walk aimlessly. Simply getting off the road seemed like a good idea too.
The brief hike through the cool climate of the forest was relatively comfortable, at least when compared to their recent jungle trek. Nevertheless, the climb up the hill was not without some effort as numerous gnarled roots and overgrown bushes impeded their way. In spots the loose earth beneath their feet gave way, causing them to slip backwards, sometimes landing them on their asses. In the end, however, the secluded spot proved to be the ideal location for the satellite uplink and a little breathing room.
“Okay, so we basically have two options,” opens Dmitri, pointing to the open browser windows on the laptop’s screen. “One, we fly. Two, we take a train.”
“Bus won’t get us there?” asks Dominic, placing the novel he’d been reading page-down on the ground between his feet.
“Nope,” replies Dmitri. “Not across the whole country. There’s a loose patchwork of regional buses that might get us there but nothing that runs direct.”
“Maybe wis ze car or truck, on ze road wis ze ‘and,” offers Mirabelle, rocking her outstretched arm up and down, thumb pointing upward.
“Hitchhiking?” confirms Dmitri.
She shrugs halfheartedly, seemingly unsure if this is the correct word.
“All of us as a group? I don’t think so,” he responds. “And individually, or in pairs, who knows where or when each of us might end up.”
Dominic adds a nod of agreement.
“If we’re taking a plane then won’t we need some ID?” asks Brock, partially distracted as he rummages through his duffel bag.
“Not for domestic flights,” replies Dmitri. “But that wouldn’t be our main problem anyway.”
“And what’s that?” asks Brock, his attention split between Dmitri and the contents of his bag.
“When we ditched our IDs we also got rid of any form of payment. We don’t even have any Thai Baht to exchange. Everything’s floating out there in the sea somewhere.”
“Couldn’t Rebekah do that thing again?” inquires Brock, mostly immersed in his task.
“To get us tickets? To get us on a plane?” she cuts in, a squint of uncertainty in her eyes. “Maybe, but I really couldn’t guarantee it. Security these days is pretty tight and there are many points of failure. For me. We’d need a back-up plan. Or two.”
“Train trip might come with a little less friction,” proposes Dominic.
“Also it can be nice,” adds Mirabelle with a dispassionate gentleness.
“But longer,” cautions Dmitri. “We’re looking at about a week of travel time. It’s not ideal.”
Finally having found what he’d been looking for, Brock pulls a rumpled brown blazer from the bag, holds it up by the shoulders, gives it a good shake, and puts it on. He wriggles in satisfaction as he sits back down to rejoin the conversation.
“Rebekah,” he begins, turning to face her, “do you think your parents are careful about security? Like, if they set that rendezvous point, would they just be standing there waiting for you?”
“That’s so stupid for so many reasons,” she responds, her rejection imbued with derision. “No. They wouldn’t do that. They’re smarter than that. They’re smarter than me and I wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay, so as long as they stay safe then our time of arrival isn’t so important,” he offers. “They just have to be patient.”
She acquiesces with a mild shrug.
With that the focus of the discussion turns to nearby train stations, ticket costs, and travel amenities. The ideal route promises to be picturesque, the dining sumptuous, and the accommodations plush. Section B soon find themselves giddy at the prospect of returning back to their initial point of departure in locomotive luxury.
The correctness of their action is accentuated as they locate a mercifully close railway station, near enough to walk to, and with a train scheduled to depart not long after they get there — if they saunter casually. With spirits further uplifted, they re-pack their bags and bound effortlessly back down the hill.
Even though the train station is “nearby”, the journey ends up being over an hour long, draining some of their energy en route. As they walk, the rugged nature around them gives way to suburban neighbourhoods, quickly yielding to a modern urban environment.
Taking a brief break across the street from their destination they review their plan. Rebekah will go in to get their tickets. She will do so either directly or with the help of a friendly traveler. There seem to be plenty of marks to choose from.
Wearing her sunglasses and a cat-like smirk she enters through the tall entrance of the palatial stone building, the heels of her shoes clicking confidently on the stone floor of the stoically ornate space until she disappears into the crowd.
As they lean on their luggage and wait for her to return the Section discuss their hopes for the upcoming trip. In his enthusiasm Brock brushes up against a lump in the pocket of his jacket, the same lump that had pushed sharply into his side under the weight of the bag he’d been carrying.
Reaching into the pocket he pulls out a thick, lumpy envelope that at first he doesn’t recognize. Staring at the parcel he makes a concerted effort to recall where he’d obtained it.
Noticing his sudden abstention from the conversation, Mirabelle points to the object in his hand and asks, “What is zis?”
Momentarily snapping back to attention he replies, “I don’t actually … I’m not sure.”
“Maybe ze Merle people ‘ave put it in zere?” she suggests.
“It seems familiar …” Brock trails off, again searching his memory.
“Shindan?” posits Dmitri uncertainly.
A few moments Brock straightens up and exlaims, “Oh, right! Rebekah gave this to me when we first met. I mean, not when we first met, but around that time.”
He rotates the sealed envelope in his hands. “I never bothered to open it. Actually, I forgot about it. Things got pretty crazy. Jacket’s been in my bag for the whole trip. I didn’t even think about it until we got here.”
“Looks pretty full,” notes Dominic, raising his eyebrows at the thick parcel in Brock’s hands.
“Yours wasn’t like this?” asks Brock.
“My what?” responds Dominic, genuinely puzzled.
“You didn’t get one? She told me it was to … what was it again … cover my expenses or something like that,” prompts Brock.
“I got some walking around money, but that was from Dmitri,” observes Elvis.
“From Rebekah, with love,” Dmitri reminds Elvis. “And that right there” — he wags a finger at Brock’s envelope — “is probably something similar. Why don’t you go ahead and open it?”
Brock does as instructed and rips the edge off the envelope, spilling the contents onto the solid case of the pod container. A bound stack of one-hundred dollar bills spills out of the pouch followed by a number of lottery tickets, blank plastic proximity cards, bus station locker keys, and a few intricate keys that seem to include electronics.
Picking up one of the lottery tickets Dominic examines it closely, holding his chin in contemplation. After a few moments he lets out a, “Hmm,” and returns the paper back to the pile.
“You know what this is?” Brock asks Dominic.
“Most of it, yeah. And the rest I can guess,” he replies, a look of disappointment on his face. “Leaves me with a few questions for our Handler.”
“Has she been knocking over lottery kiosks? Robbing bus stations?” inquires Brock with whimsical concern.
“Something like that,” responds Dominic with a waggle of the head.
“So, what, is this stuff, like, hot or something?” continues Brock, now with some genuine concern.
“You’ve seen her work so you probably have some idea,” explains Dominic, “but it’s best if she tells you about it herself. Honestly, I’m just guessing here. All I can say is that I recognize some of this.”
“Good call,” adds Dmitri as he returns one of the tickets that he’d been holding. “Let’s get her side of the story.”
“Okay,” accepts Brock hesitantly before slowly returning the contents back to their envelope and putting it back into his coat pocket.
“Hold on!” erupts Elvis with alarm. “Does that mean that my walking around money was gotten illegally?”
“I wouldn’t say illegally,” responds Dmitri. “More morally questionably.”
“But even then,” posits Dominic with upraised palms.
“But even then,” parrots Dmitri in agreement. Turning back to Elvis he advises, “Like Dom said, we don’t really know for sure so Becks will have tell you all about it, in her own words. I’ll add my own two cents after that.”
“But rest assured,” concludes Dominic, “we’ve all benefited from Rebekah’s largess. We’re all in the same boat.”
“Wouldn’t that just make us a criminal organization?” retorts Elvis, still visibly upset.
“I mean …” trails of Dominic as the logic of the proposition registers. His eyes wander off as he struggles to find a convincing counter-argument.
Just then Rebekah returns toward them at great speed. Every few steps or so she looks over her shoulder, each time increasing her pace. In her hand she holds what appear to be a number of printed tickets. On her face she wears anxiety, her hastening body is stiff with tension.
She barely looks to see if there are any oncoming cars as she crosses the street. The best she can do is to produce abrupt and spasmodic movements accompanied by wide-eyed looks at Section B.
Initially puzzled, they watch her with increasing concern. By the time she’s close enough to hiss, “We need to get the fuck out of here right now!” most of them have instinctively begun to clutch at the handles of their bags. They exit the area hurriedly and head to a secluded section of a nearby park. There they catch their breath as Rebekah explains what happened.
“Robert fucking Morris! Every single one! Can you believe that shit? And they sold it to him!” she rages, viciously shaking one of the train tickets in the air.
“What did you tell this Robert?” asks Dominic as he gazes at another ticket in disbelief.
“I made up six names and told him to get tickets for them,” she says, exasperated.
“What exactly did you tell him?” reiterates Dominic.
“I told him the names and then said, exactly, go to that counter and buy tickets for these people.”
“You didn’t specify that the tickets have to have these people’s names on them?” he questions.
Eyes closed and shaking her head she replies, “I didn’t think I needed to.”
“So then what happened?” asks Dmitri.
“He was at that counter a long time,” she says, now more despondent than angry. “The ticket lady in the booth looked really confused. Who knows what the fuck he was telling her.”
“And she ended up selling him six tickets for six different berths, all on the same train, all under his own name,” suggests Dmitri.
“As you can see for yourself,” she says, slapping the corner of the ticket in her hand. “I didn’t know until he handed them over and by then the lady was pointing us out to security. Apparently this kind of thing” — she shakes the ticket again — “arouses suspicion! I’m not sure how much of me they saw but I’m probably on some camera so it probably doesn’t matter.”
“So the train is nixed,” assumes Brock with a sigh.
“Unless one of you want to give it another go. I’m not showing my face there again, not for a while,” states Rebekah.
“And no plane,” adds Dmitri. “Doesn’t leave much.”
“No it doesn’t,” agrees Dominic.
Lighting a cigarette, Mirabelle takes a long drag and proposes, “Maybe we ‘ave to be a little more assertif.”
“You mean like carjack a minibus?” chuckles Rebekah.
Mirabelle responds with a non-committal shrug.
Before Rebekah has a chance to challenge her, Elvis interrupts them. With an eerie calm, like someone resigned to an inevitable fate, he says, “Actually, you might be on to something.”