of being an expert in the world of Parkour.
And hell, most people wouldn't even know that
what he wants to do even exists. Is there such a thing as a
Parkour professional? Parkour? What the hell is Parkour?
He'd make a better living as a birthday party clown for six-
year-olds, he thought.
ASK ANY ALCOHOLIC or cancer patient—vomiting is
not fun. But like all unpleasant things, if it occurs often
enough, one gets used to it. Torben was having another
bad day. He was tiring of eating sensible meals, or even
drinking a small bottle of water, only to have the
immediate urge to regurgitate it. And the episodes were
happening more and more frequently. Almost daily by
now.
He had to eat, and he had to keep it down. His
vitamins could only do so much, and even they wouldn't
work if there was no food to bond them to. He was in a
right mess. And while he knew the blame was all his, he
was tiring of this constant negative view of himself.
It's funny, he thought, that the place he would
begin to feel better about himself—and even feel welcome
at—was at Sander's house. How could he really be
forgiven? And even if Sander truly had, how could the
little boy feel anything but abject hatred towards him?
Another wave struck him and he barely made it to
the toilet. He was happy to be home alone, where his
benefactors wouldn't have to see or hear any of this. What
an ignorant fuck I've been, he thought. I could have had what
that American kid has. I could have been loved unconditionally,
and I wouldn't have been given The Plague. I'd have in-laws
who cared for me. And in another world, he would have
formed a relationship with the kid brother, like that Johnnie
guy had.
He'd have been somebody's hero. Someone would
have looked up to him. But that's not how it went, he
knew, and there was nothing he could do about it now.
"ACH! I SHALL HAVE KNOWN that it was a trick,
Pokey!" Jannik exclaimed, as Sander parked his car outside
of the psychologist's office.
"Nay, nay, little brother! We are doing all of the
things we talked about—after your meeting with the
doctor," Sander replied.
"Such a tricky monkey you are! I will tell her that
you are the reason I go crazy in my head! And then she
will make you go to the rubber room in the white coat with
your hands tied like my shoes! You will see!"
"Off with you! I'll wait here."
"...And miss Johnnie! And play love songs on the
stereo! And cry like a big baby for your Johnnie, Johnnie,
John-John!" he teased, hopping out of the car. "Don't
drown yourself! I'll be back soon!" he promised, traipsing
off across the walkway to the double doors of the medical
building.
"WOULD YOU LIKE TO STAY out here and visit with the
fish while we talk a little?" Helle asked Jannik. "It's nobody
here today but you and me and the fishes," she said.
"Yes! I like them very much. They make things very
slow and calm," Jannik said.
"That's why they're here. Sometimes I need to be
calm and I just come out here and sit with them. I like the
angelfish. They're so serene. Do you know that word?"
Jannik shot her a glance; one of, Please lady, who the fuck
do you think you're talking to here?
"I'm sorry I asked you that. What was I thinking?"
"Maybe the fish made you too serene," Jannik
smiled. "What shall we talk about?"
"What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know. You say," Jannik replied. "You're the
shrink."
"Well, how about we pick up where we left off last
time. Do you remember what I asked you?"
"You wanted to know what I think about when I'm
having a private time with myself," Jannik said. "I wonder
why you wonder this."
"Because those thoughts, images, whatever you're
thinking about at those times can cause a lot of guilt. And
guilt is a very bad thing because it cripples you worse than
if your leg was broken," Helle explained. "It's not that
you're having a fun time with yourself. Everybody does. I
just want to make sure that the things that cross your mind
are healthy for you, and that you're not hurting yourself in
some way."
"Oh." Jannik fixated on an Oscar fish, watching it
lope among the faux porcelain shipwrecks in its own real
time slow motion. It seemed like it locked eyes with the
boy, who must have appeared frighteningly giant-like to
his limited sentience.
"Jannik?" Helle prodded. "Are you with me?"
Jannik nodded, never breaking eye contact with the fish.
"Can you share what you're thinking right now?" He
turned to her, tears running silently down his face.
"HELLE WANTS TO SEE YOU," Jannik reported to his
brother as he climbed into the car. "I'm supposed to wait
for you here."
"Ooo! You're in trouble now!" Sander chuckled, as
he started out of the car. As he turned to lock the door he
caught Jannik's serious mood, head facing the floor, the
little guy avoiding eye contact with him.
"What's wrong, Spiderman?" Sander asked. Jannik
just shrugged his shoulders and descended into another
crying jag, confusing and alarming his brother even more.
"Come with me. It's not that bad, whatever it is, okay?"
And he helped Jannik out of the car, walking to the
building with his arm securely embracing the sobbing boy.
"WE DON'T HAVE AN SAS EVAC team anywhere in the
area. Leastways not that we could risk revealing. And I
don't know that we'd be able to get them there in time
even if we did," Fouts-Rushbrook said, feeling the
frustration that was not in short supply.
"I have another idea, but it's a whopper," I said. "I
don't know what kind of latitude you've been given, but if
we do what I'm thinking of, we'll get 'em out no problem.
It's up to your side, I guess."
"Oh? Do tell..."
TRUE TO HIS WORD, Sander took Jannik to the stores,
and stopped to let him grab some McDonald's take away.
By late afternoon they were on the drive home. Neither
had spoken a word, and whereas before it was Jannik who
had been emotional, it was all Sander could do just to hold
it together until he reached the safety of his bedroom and
could release the tears.
He was gutted.
It was so difficult for Helle to even form the words,
but it had to be discussed. There was no denying that.
Jannik, she had said, you should tell your brother what you
shared with me earlier. He needs to know, and he should hear it
from you.
"You tell him! You didn't even want me to come
back up here. You were gonna tell him, so tell him. I can't!"
Jannik sobbed.
"What happened, Jan? You can tell me anything.
We're brothers, yes? Did somebody do something to hurt
you?" Sander asked. Jannik shook his
head.
"No! Nobody hurt me, brother! I hurt you! And I'm
so sorry! But I can't say it because you'll hate me forever
and ever and I can't take that!" Jannik cried.
Sander's eyes met Helle's. Clearly he didn't know
where to go with this. He was really becoming worried for
his little brother, and truly was at a loss for what to do
about it.
"Jannik," Helle began, "the sooner that we talk
about this, the sooner we can fix it and move on."
"Don't you see? If I say it, things will never be the
same again, and if they hate me forever I don't blame
them! Why do I have to even say it?" Jannik pleaded. "It
won't help anything!"
"Yes it will! It will help you. And that's who we're
here to help, don't you agree, brother?" Helle looked at
Sander and said.
"I do. I really do, and she's right, Cracker Jack! You
have to tell me so things for you can be good again."
"You'll never be my friend anymore! You'll never
call me Cracker Jack or Spiderman! You'll just be finished
with me, I know it!" he exclaimed, another round of sobs
obscuring his words.
They let him cry it out for awhile, and when he
calmed down a bit Sander pulled his driving license from
his wallet, making eye contact with Helle and giving her a
wink.
"Tell you what. Don't tell me. Tell my picture. You
won't even have to look at me; look at this instead, and just
tell it to the pic!" Sander said. "Go ahead, take it. Look right
at it and say all you've got to say! How's that sound?"
Jannik nodded, and fixated on the driving license
photo. "Brother," he began, "I'm so very sorry, but I have
really done something I am so ashamed of and I don't
know the best way to say it. But I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for?" Helle asked him.
"I'm sorry because I violated your privacy. Both
you and Johnnie. And I'm so sorry," Jannik said. "I spied
on you sometimes when you were being together in your
bedroom. I watched and I did some things I should be
ashamed of. I'm sorry! And now you hate me, I know it!"
"Nobody hates you, Jannik. Your brother doesn't
hate you, I'm sure," Helle offered.
"Did he? ...
"He masturbated outside your door while he
watched you being intimate with your partner."
"Yeah. Well. That's not good, is it?" Sander told
him. "Why did you do it?"
"I was curious." Jannik replied.
"Okay. Maybe the first time. How many times did
you do it?" Sander asked. Jannik raised his hand and
displayed four fingers, avoiding Sander's stern gaze. "I see.
Well," he said, turning to Helle, "is that all then? Can I take
him home now?" Helle replied with a nod, and soon they
were on the car ride back to Gelsted.
Chapter 23
loody brilliant, mate," Fouts-Rushbrook exclaimed
" after I gave him a pencil sketch idea of my
B extrication plan. Now it was all about whether or
not he could get the pieces on the board. "Go tell them
we'll need an aircraft standing by that'll seat eight and
luggage, and I'll take care of that other little matter. And
then tell the embassy in Rabat what we're up to and we'll
get this show on the road!"
"Sure thing, Foutsey. You want anything from the
canteen for the plane ride?" I asked him.
"Oh, heavens, yes. I'm rather famished, as it
happens. Choose something tasty and unhealthy, if you'd
be so kind. I'll meet you in the hangar in about an hour."
The clock was ticking. And I was starting to feel my
favorite feeling at work—Job High! It starts with some
light-headedness that manifests in kind of a weightless
feeling around my feet. That's when I know the
adrenaline—the good kind, not the scared shitless kind—is
beginning to make itself known.
I get hyper-happy, like you're supposed to feel like
on Ecstasy, only without the dry mouth and resulting
dehydration. I went to the comm station and got a secure
routing to the security chief at the British Embassy.
"Harrods on Mayfair," the officer answered. "Who
may I say is calling?"
"Western Cousin Coach Line for your travel
arrangements, sir." came my reply.
"Go ahead."
"Smith-Jones, party of four, Charlie-Uniform-Tango
plus twelve local, on Brighton at 3-3-decimal-8-2-8-4-
Niner-4, by 7-decimal-1-5-1-4-7-8-Stop. Finish with
engine."
"Understood—read back..." And he repeated it all
flawlessly. Then the line went silent, and I made for the
grub!
You may wonder what all the gibberish means. It's
pretty straightforward, actually. Any middle-schooler
playing Spy vs. Spy in the playground could easily figure
it out. But what those kids don't have is the code book that
changes everything that is obvious, to a place nobody in
the DST would or could ever figure out, even if they had
the time to do it.
So, to break it down: Harrods on Mayfair is nothing
more than the telephone greeting code of the twenty-four
hours beginning at 0001 Coordinated Universal Time—
that's the world time standard at Greenwich Observatory
near London—until 23:59 a day later. If the of-the-day
greeting given was different, I would have hung up the
phone immediately and found out the reason why.
When he asked who the call was from, I responded
ready to move some assets within his area. I identified
them as Smith-Jones, total of four bodies being moved.
Again, Smith-Jones is a code word established solely for
the people being moved, so anyone listening in would
never be able to figure out who they are exactly. For all
they would know, it could be anyone from the Queen of
England who is being moved, down to the guy who
washes the dishes in the ambassador's residence. That
code changes daily, too.
The Charlie-Uniform-Tango plus twelve simply
means Coordinated Universal Time plus twelve hours
from the time that the call is taking place. Ah! But is it
twelve hours really? Or does the code book reflect that
twelve hours is actually three hours? Or fifteen hours?
Hey, the bad guys have a one-in-twenty-four odds of
figuring that one out.
Finally, the big number! The actual satellite global
positioning system location of the pick-up, good to within
three meters. But once again, between you and me and the
losers at the DST, it's a false flag.
Those
numbers
actually mean another number entirely that will lead our
travelers to exactly where they need to be in order to be
scooped safely into my waiting arms. Eat shit, DST!
I loaded my backpack to bursting with some
awesome munchies courtesy of Uncle Sam, and met
Foutsey back at the plane. It was a gorgeous Cessna
Caravan painted in FedEx livery
. The only way that you
could tell that it was a government plane working an asset
extraction? ... You couldn't!
The pilots were even dressed in FedEx gear with
cute little stripes on their epaulets. To all intents and
purposes, we were a FedEx plane filled to the brim with
packages that absolutely, positively had to be there
overnight!
"Well this is certainly First Cabin," Foutsey smiled.
"This isn't half bad!"
"Port out, Starboard home!" I said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Port side out, Starboard side home—POSH!" I told
him.
"Posh! Oh yes. Of course I know what posh means,
old boy, but I'm afraid I'm at a loss with the reference you
use..."
"What?!" I joked. "You're an upper crust Brit and
you don't know where the word Posh comes from?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to school me, my man!" he
grinned.
"Well, back in the day, the best and most luxurious
cabins on the Union Castle steamers to Africa were the
ones that faced the coastline. You were considered very
well-to-do if you paid the extra quid to have that view on
your trip, right? So if you were headed to South Africa
from England, in order to view the coastline the whole
way, you'd book a port side cabin on the outward journey,
and book a starboard side cabin for the return. Ergo, old
chap, Port Out, Starboard, Home—POSH!"
"Well bloody hell! Aren't you just the Walking
Wiki," he laughed.
"I know. Annoying, isn't it?" I smiled.
The flight was a pleasurable and uneventful three
hours. We played cards, downed some sandwiches and
junk food, drank some bottled tea, and told a rasher of
badly inappropriate jokes. We knew we'd struck comedy
gold when the pilots laughed and started contributing
their own ribald stories, many of them featuring
stewardesses in various states of undress.
So I haven't yet told you what the extraction plan
is. That's because I wanted to save the coolest bit, because
it's one hell of a surprise. But it's time to let you know
where this crate we're flying on is headed. We're a few
minutes away from the British overseas territory of
Gibraltar, which is just across the mouth of the
Mediterranean from our goal site of Rabat, Morocco.
Something really cool about the Gibraltar airport is
that its primary runway crosses the main road—a major