Out of the city’s limits the taxi cabs make their way past ever shorter and sparser buildings that lead to ghostly suburban subdivisions, then finally onto a dusty and uneven country road running between tree-lined farm fields that spill into overgrown ditches.
After a few minutes the vehicles make a sharp turn at the end of a row of tall hedges that terminate at a blue and white mailbox. The cars roll over a small culvert and come to a gentle stop at the end of a short gravel driveway. Rebekah pays the cabbies as Section B exit their vehicles, pulling their luggage out onto the stony path.
Hidden behind more thickets, the two-storey blue and white house is well disguised to casual observers.
Small and cheery flower beds line the front of the structure and the sloping southern view opens into an expansive view of an ocean-like lake some distance away. The lightly hazy atmosphere surrounding the property makes the distant body of water nearly indistinguishable from the sky above it.
Serene rural windows and gently sloped grey roofs line the otherwise nondescript house, with the exception of an odd wooden shape projecting north from the shaded second floor edifice. Upon closer inspection the shape seems to be that of a heavily weathered mermaid.
From the driveway Section B can see part of large backyard extending outward to a picturesque wooden fence, beyond which is another farm field. Birds chirp happily from somewhere in the trees as a cool and gentle breeze blows over rows of beige corn stubble in the neighbouring field.
“So that’s the boathouse,” explains Rebekah, pointing to the building with an upraised palm as she moves toward the front stairs. “You guys hang back.”
“We’ll avenge your death,” offers Dmitri as he watches her move toward the elevated entrance. She shoots back a weak smile of recognition.
In a few moments she’s knocking on the front door and glancing back at Section B with apprehension. Shortly after that the door swings open and a pair of tanned, feminine arms reaches out to engulf Rebekah and pull her into the open doorway. In a few moments Rebekah’s own arm comes back into view, waving reassuringly at her fellow agents.
They observe the mostly obstructed interaction for a while longer after which Rebekah re-emerges with a suppressed grin. Following her are two similarly sized and surreptitiously grinning individuals.
The engulfing arms belong to an elderly but elegant Indian woman wearing and orange and yellow sari slung casually over one shoulder, her black and silver hair pulled into a bun at the crown of her head. A pair of delicate reading glasses are slung around her neck on a thin golden chain, matching the slender bracelets on her wrists. In a number of ways her mouth and hair resemble Rebekah’s.
The daughter’s jawline and eyes, however, are reminiscent of the man standing on her other side. Of a similar stature, his thinning white hair is granted gravitas by a well maintained handlebar mustache and a piercing black gaze. Atop his brown patched sweater sits a crisp white collar from which emerges a dark bow tie. Below, the ensemble is completed by pressed brown slacks and dark, well-worn loafers.
With Rebekah standing between them their mutual resemblance is undeniable.
“The princess and the professor,” she proclaims to Section B. “These are my folks.”
“I’m not zo dainty as she zuggests,” offers Cornelius to the agents with a thick German accent emerging from beneath a jovially bobbing mustache.
“And I haven’t taught in years,” adds Arti, her words imbued with a refined mix of British and Indian. With a gracefully authoritative movement she gestures for the Section to come inside.
Following her instructions they drop their baggage at the door, introduce themselves, and quickly take in their new surroundings.
The interior of the house is sumptuous.
The entrance opens directly into a large, well-lit, modern kitchen suitable for multiple people to prepare large meals. In the middle is an angular table that extends around a stove, a tiny sink with a tall spout, and a sizeable work area.
Whisks, spatulas, tongs, pots, pans, colanders, and a variety of other cooking implements hang suspended next to a dome over the central stove. Two ovens dominate the far wall and another stove is installed nearby. A second sink, this one filled with drying dishes, sits immediately to the left of the entrance. “Could do a cooking show in here,” whispers Dominic as he looks around.
To their immediate right is a darkened passage beyond which is a darkened room. The next door to their right appears to lead into the basement, which is also imperceptibly dark. The final doorway to their right emits a warm and inviting radiance.
Peeking inside they spot a wooden interior of rich mahogany, mellow oak, and vibrant cherry cabinets, all lined with quaint display pieces, books, and decorative tableware, most appearing antique, and many bearing distinctly seafaring elements.
The wooden floor is covered with a detailed area rug with a marine motif, much of which is obscured by a dark and stout coffee table, low slung leather recliners, and a warm brown couch wearing a quilted blanket of muted colours.
Behind the couch hangs a large reproduction of an old and intricate nautical chart. A wooden ship’s wheel is hung up next to it. In a free corner of the room a model schooner rests inside a sizeable bottle mounted on a lustrous hexagonal side table. Nearby, a small window is covered by a velvet drape bearing what appears to be a naval logo incorporating an anchor.
Recalling the northern appendage to second floor of the house Brock turns to Rebekah’s parents and remarks, “You must really like boats.”
“Not really,” replies Cornelius with a gentle shake of the head. “Zis is not our house und most of zees sings are not ours. Vee haff an old arrangement wis ze owners, you see. Rebekah may remember meeting zem. It vould haff been a long time ago but I knew she would remember ze boathouse where vee spent so many summers.”
As Brock nods his understanding, Cornelius concludes, “But you are right, ze owners enjoy sailing on ze ocean ven zey can. Zat is a large part of ze reezon vee can be here, you see, until vee can return safely to our own home. Naturlich, I sink all of us vould like to do zat.”
With that the Section are hustled back into the spacious kitchen area where they’re ushered into a number of chairs around the oddly shaped table.
Before taking his own seat Cornelius exclaims, “I cannot beleif zat you haff gotten mine dotter home safely to me!” Adoring tears well up in his eyes as he holds up Rebekah’s face with both hands. Her cheeks grow red, a suppressed grin producing visible tension at the corners of her mouth.
Pursing her lips, Arti adds a dignified yet vigorous nod. She gazes slowly around the angular table, absorbing the features and demeanour of every Section B agent. Then, with a deep breath she pulls back her chair, stands up, and with outstretched arms exclaims, “This is worth celebrating!”
With that she takes a few steps and begins to fling open the kitchen’s numerous cabinets, pulling out jars and boxes.
Seemingly within moments Arti has prepared a dish of sauerkraut and sausage, described as an “out of a jar and into an air fryer recipe”. This is accompanied by a microwave-thawed Chana Masala dish accompanied by flatbread previously prepared by Cornelius as “practice”. Many packaged and mystery snacks find their way out of the expansive pantry. Bottles of alcohol quickly follow from the top shelves of the lively room.
With everyone engaged, the tale of Section B’s adventures is being freely, sometimes rambunctiously shared. Only Mirabelle leaves the conversation to “take a break” a few times, her lit cigarette remaining visible through the glass of the main entrance door.
Listening mostly in rapt silence, the elderly Heinrichs inject occasional questions with Cornelius taking a special interest in the pod. They express genuine sympathy when Elvis talks about his own parents but most of the time Rebekah’s folks stop only to nod at something they already knew or to shake their heads disapprovingly upon learning of their daughter’s excessive alcohol and/or drug consumption. Her response is a sheepish smile.
Further personal perspectives, biographical snippets, and personal observations are sprinkled liberally by the agents throughout the narrative, painting for Rebekah’s parents a detailed portrait of events right up to the point when Section B arrived at the house. Only a few stories are strategically omitted, usually those involving only two people and potentially compromising details.
When the otherwise rich accounts come to a natural lull, Rebekah poses the question that’s been lingering on the Section’s minds.
“So what’s the deal with Shindan?” she asks, her mouth a flat horizon bisecting her face.
“Oh meine Liebe!” begins her father with exasperation. “Vee sent zem to vatch over you!”
“Your father is correct,” acknowledges Arti in a measured tone as she wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “We had both received intelligence that something terrible may happen to you and naturally we became worried.”
“What intelligence?” insists Rebekah, still reserved.
“We began,” begins Arti, “to receive the same message from the agency, over and over again. A single word … danger.”
“Zen dreamz,” continues Cornelius, “Bos of us. Ze same vuns. Sree nights in a row. Somvun was running away vis zat bag you alvays carry vis you. Zey had stolen it.”
“And then you were being shot at,” adds Arti, “on some sort of large canoe.”
“I did get robbed! We did get shot at!” reports Rebekah loudly, adding, “On a boat!”
She pauses for a moment.
“But … so … what happened?”
“So your father,” says Arti with a sideways nod to her husband, “decided to hire an affordable investigation firm. Someone to keep tabs on you and report to us if anything suspicious came up. Unfortunately, it seems that they didn’t fully understand our instructions, or perhaps the people carrying out the assignment were misinformed.”
“Or maybe incompetent,” suggests Dmitri.
“Quite possibly,” agrees Arti. “In any event, when we told them of our suspicions …”
“Yes?” cuts in Rebekah, the prompt marked with a tone of anticipation.
“… they somehow concluded that we wanted them to steal the bag,” finishes Arti. “To make matters worse, they went dark and it took us some time to discover all of this. We only first knew that something was amiss when, without notice, we suddenly lost all contact with them. It was a couple of days later that we learned that they had vacated their downtown office and disappeared.”
“That would have been around the time when we went dark and tracked them to Thailand,” confirms Rebekah. “But what about the Bangkok assassins?”
“That,” assures Arti calmly, “was precisely what we were trying to prevent. I’m afraid to say that anxiety clouded my own better judgement when it came to employing Shindan but I’m certain that we never mentioned anything about assassinations, weapons, or anything of the sort.
“It’s clear that this grotesque affair began with the theft of your bag, as the intelligence predicted, but beyond that we’re no nearer to any meaningful answers. To borrow that tired old expression, it would appear that we’re all in the same boat. And if it wasn’t for Rose we wouldn’t even know most of what we know.”
“Rose?” inquires Dominic.
“Yah,” responds her father, “she has been a great help. Among ozer sings, she helped arrange for zat small office wis ze computer. If you haff been to ze Shindan headqvorters in Thailand zen perhaps you have already met her?” he suggests.
As the Section exchange quizzical looks Cornelius mentions something about additional details, grabs a mobile phone from a nearby counter, and excuses himself to the adjoining room.
A brief and muffled conversation follow, after which he returns, stating, “I haff called her und she is on her vay. She is eager to meet you all.”
With Arti and Cornelius’ enthusiastic coaxing the impending arrival of Rose fades into the background as Section B are introduced to the various parts of the house.
Upstairs, via a staircase running parallel to the one to the basement, are numerous bedrooms in which the agents plant their bags. With scenic landings and comfortably quaint views, not to mention an expansive backyard willow tree that cozies up to an outdoor hot tub, the location could easily provide side income as a rural B&B.
Cornelius and Arti leave the Section to settle in with a few warnings about the house’s water supply: it’s minarelized, limited, and probably not safe for drinking.
Some time later, having used the special hard water soaps and fluffy towels provided by their hosts, most of Section B have showered and wandered back down to the welcoming yet busy environment of the maritime room. Simple but engaging jazz music is emanating from speakers hidden somewhere about the cozy environment as they enter.
Rebekah is the last person to make her way down and into the midst of conversation.
“So you haff zis pod vis you here?” Cornelius asks Dmitri who sits opposite him sipping an amber liquor.
“We do,” replies the larger man. “We can take it out for a spin if you want.”
“Perhaps I vill take you up on zat!” exclaims Cornelius with upraised eyebrows. “I recall Rebekah experimented vis somesing like siz, only more basic” — he glances at her as she nods her head in agreement — “but vee use ze old-fashioned vay.”
“Meditation?” inquires Dmitri.
“Sometimes,” responds the older man. “Sometimes dreamz. Sometimes synchronicities. Back in ze olden dayz vee vould use more traditionally voo-voo approaches but over time vee found such mesods too limiting. Some of our compatriots called us navel gazers but, you know, siz is silly … all I ever found zere vas lint!”
The statement elicits mild chuckles from the assembled group.
“How do you record the intel?” continues Dmitri.
“Alzo ze old-fashioned vay,” explains Cornelius. “Vee use pencil und paper, vich vee alvays have on hand, und vee have established some codes to hide ze information in case someone should become too nosy.”
Brock raises a finger and asks, “How did you set all this up. I mean, do you have any training or education in this?”
“Not directly,” replies Arti before Cornelius gets a chance to answer, “just what the agency indicates. We pick up what we need here and there. Our operation is quite unique and in many ways unprecedented so, at the risk of sounding smug, we’re more likely to write the textbook on the subject rather than learn it from someone else.”
“Yeah … the agency,” acknowledges Brock. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. And who are your compatriots?”
“Naturally you vant answers,” notes Cornelius. “Especially wis your extraordinary experience in ze pod. Well, you know, it’s a long story.”
“I’m all ears,” assures Brock. The rest of Section B settle in to listen. Rebekah leans forward, keen on recovering some of the hazy parts of her memories.
“Very vell,” acquiesces the older man. “I’ll try to skip ze minor details but still ze beggining of ze agency goes back qvite a few years …”