A lone beam of sunlight bisects the small eatery of the New Siam Guest House. Seated well out of the beam’s path is Dominic, perusing a folded newspaper in one hand while bringing a small cup of black coffee to his lips with the other.
Today he’s wearing a loose button up with a Japanese floral motif across it. Thin cotton slacks drape themselves comfortably over elegantly crossed legs.
A half-eaten piece of toast lies on a simple plate in front of him, some empty plastic butter containers on the side next to a knife, a small metallic teapot, and a decorated black tin.
“Good morning!” Dominic greets Brock jovially. “Wasn’t sure if we’d see you again.”
Angling toward a chair opposite him, Brock wears a pair of loose khakis, light brown cotton shirt, and a blue sun visor with striped white band he’d spontaneously decided to grab while strolling along Khao San the previous evening.
“Had my doubts,” he admits as he takes a seat. “Mira and I had a good talk. Got some stuff sorted.”
“Well it’s good to have you here, Medic,” says Dominic through a smile. “How’re you feeling today? We’re going to need you for the plan we’ve been putting together.”
A nervous, “Surprisingly good but I’m not sure-” is all that Brock manages to get out before Dominic interjects.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” reassures the large man. “I know that you’re new to this. You’ll be with me and I’ll be taking the lead, no extra skills required.”
Brock thinks it over for a moment. Some words from the previous night resonate.
“Okay,” he replies, “but call me Brock. It’ll feel a lot less formal.”
“Brock it is,” confirms Dominic. “We’ll do a full rundown of our intel and plan as soon as everyone’s up. In the meantime, how about some coffee?”
“That sounds good,” says Brock, surprised at his own upbeat tone.
Dominic signals the waitress and orders another round of toast and a coffee cup.
She brings the cup almost immediately and Dominic fills it with coffee from the teapot. “Indonesian,” he remarks as he returns the pot to the table. “Kopi luwak. They import it here.”
Brock takes a sip from the simple earthenware cup. Powdered grounds are suspended in the brew but the drink is otherwise pleasantly balanced without any off-putting overtones. A fine grit lightly coats his mouth, leaving behind a satisfying coffee flavour.
“Very nice,” notes Brock. “What did you say this was again?”
“Kopi lewak,” replies Dominic with an odd smile. “Civet coffee.”
“What’s civet coffee?” asks Brock as he takes another sip.
“Civet’s a type of cat,” clarifies Dominic, the odd smile on his face broadening. “If you ask me it looks more like a weasel, but that’s neither here nor there.
“It’s indigenous to Indonesia, loves to eat ripe coffee cherries. It doesn’t digest the beans though. Instead, it imbues them with certain prized qualities as it passes them through its digestive system. The locals swear by it. Export-quality product has the excrement with the green beans embedded in it. That’s the top-shelf stuff, very expensive,” he concludes, faced stretched to maximum effect.
“Oh,” replies Brock as he gazes into his cup. As the toast arrives at the table he lifts his head and takes a large gulp.
“This coffee’s the shit,” he announces with a smirk.
“Ha!” shouts Dominic with delight as he thumps the small table, causing everything on it to jump. “Good! We’re gonna get along just fine!”
“Weasel crap coffee. Nice one,” chuckles Brock.
“Oh it’s real!” replies Dominic with sincerity. “You can look it up. But that” — he points to the cup that Brock is holding — “didn’t come out of a cat’s ass. I’m open to new coffee experiences but I draw the line at that. This is a Sumatran. Same region, same coffee, far fewer feces. Here, try this,” suggests Dominic as he slides the black tin across the table.
Brock spins the container around to reveal a brightly decorative flower and leaf motif around the words “Tasmanian Leatherwood Honey”. Prying the lid off with his butter knife he spreads a thin layer onto the buttered toast and takes a bite.
“Mmm,” he mumbles approvingly. Swallowing, he asks Dominic, “So are you a food connoisseur?”
“Mostly coffee,” explains Dominic as he takes a sip from his own cup. “The honey’s Dmitri’s. He just handed it to me one day and said, `Here, try it.’ When I told him I liked it he insisted I keep it, called it disgusting.”
“You guys go back a ways?” inquires Brock.
“Many years,” responds Dominic. “Through Rebekah. We didn’t know each other before that. He’s a good man, very skilled at what he does.”
“For some reason I’d assumed you were friends.”
“Nope. But you do develop a relationship after you’ve worked with someone long enough. You get to know them, kind of like Rebekah. You may have started to notice some of her tendencies.”
“Yeah, I did notice. But in her defence I didn’t ask nearly enough questions. I won’t make that mistake again.”
With a broad smile Brock continues, “So in that spirit, how did you meet Mira?”
“She showed up one day at the gym I was volunteering at and asked to go a few rounds. At first I didn’t know what to say. I mean, you’ve seen her. But she insisted so I got into the ring with her and started throwing light taps.
“Try as I might, I couldn’t touch her. I started going faster and harder and she just moved around everything I was throwing at her. I know I’m not in top shape but she’d duck and weave around every punch like I wasn’t even there. It started to look like she’d be in motion at exactly the same moment as my arms were, like she was an extension of them, anticipating every move.”
“I got a demonstration last night,” notes Brock.
“Crazy shit, right?”
“It was more convincing than anything I’ve seen so far.”
Dominic sucks in some air through the corner of his mouth in an uncertain hiss. “If I’m hearing you correctly, we’re not really sure what Rebekah’s psi skills are either. The hypnosis is useful and she’s much better at it than any of us but ultimately it’s pretty mundane. Other than that, she seems to be pretty average.”
“What about you, Dom?” asks Brock.
“Speak of the devil!” intones Dominic as a sudden shock jolts Brock’s body, a pair of unseen hands landing on his shoulders.
“Oh shit, dude, I didn’t mean to scare you,” says a woman’s voice from behind as Brock spins around to identify its source. It’s Rebekah wearing a white blouse, simple brown shorts, and an apologetic look.
She takes a seat next to him as he calms down, plopping a plump leather bag at her feet.
“I want to apologize, again, about not filling you in on everything earlier,” she says. “I should’ve but, I dunno, I guess secrecy gives me a boner” — she looks accusingly at Dominic who responds with a gentle smile.
“Actually,” he says in an assured tone, “that was Dmitri’s term. But I agree, you do seem take the secret part of secret agent a little too seriously.”
Rebekah raises an eyebrow in acquiescence.
“You haven’t called me dude for a while,” interjects Brock.
“It’s been a stressful time,” she reminds him.
“I’d rather you call me Brock. I’m trying to grow into it,” he declares.
“Yeah, alright,” agrees Rebekah with a nod. “So what’s going on here? Breakfast?”
Spotting the black tin she asks, “Is that Leatherwood Honey?”
“Tasmanian, yes,” confirms Dominic.
“You didn’t happen to get that from Dmitri did you?”
“As a matter of fact I did.”
“And did he tell you where he got it?”
“He mentioned something about ordering it from some online shop,” replies Dominic with a shrug.
“Oh, is that so?” replies Rebekah through pursed lips, jutting her tongue into the inside of her cheek as though she has some food stuck there. Her response puzzles both Brock and Dominic.
Then, pulling her mouth into something that’s neither smile nor frown, she clasps her hands together resolutely and says, “You know what? That’s fine.”
Perplexed, Dominic and Brock look at each.
Breathing deeply and waggling her head from side to side, Rebekah remarks, “I just need to relax more.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” notes Dominic.
A suddenly smiling and upbeat Rebekah asks, “How about some of that coffee?”
As the three of them continue to chat, eat breakfast, and drink Indonesian coffee, the rest of Section B slowly trickle down to the table.
Dmitri arrives first, a black bucket hat accompanying a black t-shirt and thin black pants. He’s well-rested and jovial.
Mira arrives next, moving slowly and sleepily, dressed in what appear to be the same clothes as the previous night.
Elvis is the last to arrive, chipper and sporting a neon orange t-shirt with fitted black jeans, a large and ornate buckle ostensibly holding them up.
Orders of additional toast, bacon, eggs, sausages, waffles, banana pancakes, and orange juice are consumed with gusto. The black tin is passed around over breakfast with only Rebekah and Dmitri politely refusing to partake. Elvis likes the honey, Mira doesn’t care for it.
With the table finally cleared of everything except coffee cups and an ashtray, Rebekah hauls up the large leather bag from her feet and places it on the flat surface.
“So this is what they’re after,” she says as she unbuckles the fasteners on the satchel. She pulls out thick brown folders containing loose papers of various shapes and sizes, and passes them around the table.
“You’ll probably recognize some of these,” she notes as everyone flips through their folders’ contents. Everyone but Brock occasionally nod their heads in recognition as they read.
Bearing the name “CIVIE” on the outside, Brock is surprised to see what appear to be military documents in his folder, many of them stamped “SECRET”. They look hand-typed and photocopied with some dating back as far as the mid 1960s. Between these are old newspaper clippings and some hand-written notes. There are also a number of papers with internet addresses printed on them in organized groups. All of the information has to do with research into psychic abilities, or “psi” as some of the papers refer to it.
“What does civie mean?” asks Brock, tapping the name on the folder.
“Civilian,” replies Rebekah. “That’s basically public knowledge, either declassified or never classified. It doesn’t include all the research that’s out there, just what’s useful to us.”
“Oh,” remarks Brock as he notes the declassification notices on the “SECRET” documents. “I was getting worried for a second there.”
“That’s the stuff we’re least worried about. That” — she points at the folder that Elvis is holding — “is much more important.”
Elvis swaps his bundle of documents with Brock’s.
Now Brock is holding the “R” folder containing printouts of dated entries accompanied by charts, diagrams, and columns of categorized data. He doesn’t understand most of it.
“That,” explains Rebekah gravely, “is agency research. It really is secret. I think we all understand” — she pauses to look at everyone around the table individually — “that it doesn’t leave this group. I’d recommend hitting it after the civie file. After that the training manuals will make a lot more sense.” She points at the paperwork in Dominic’s hands, noting, “They’re in that folder over there.”
Dominic hands the “M” folder over as Mira grabs the “R” folder from Brock’s hands, explaining, “I don’t sink I see zis ‘hole one before.”
Dmitri places his “Ops” folder into the centre of the table and pulls up a small, rugged, black laptop computer. Flipping it open, he pours his attention into the device as everyone else pores over documents, occasionally discussing and exchanging folders.
Half an hour later, the folders are collected and sealed back within the leather bag. Dmitri has stopped typing and now sits attentively.
“I can see why someone would want to get their hands on this,” concludes Brock with astonishment. “If even half of this is possible, the implications are staggering.”
“It’s more than possible,” responds Rebekah. “Dmitri, Dom, and me have run plenty of successful missions with that m.o.”
Both men nod in agreement.
“Me too,” adds Elvis enthusiastically.
“Only a small one,” includes Mira in a casually indifferent tone.
“Missions, missions,” repeats Brock distractedly.
After a few moments he collects himself and asks, “So if I’m a part of all this then I should be able to have a look at these pods.”
Dmitri and Dominic both look puzzled.
“The ones you use to communicate with the agency? How you get assignments? Missions?” clarifies Brock.
“Just the one,” says Rebekah. “We have just the one pod. Dom?”
“Oh right!” responds Dominic in sudden recognition. “Of course. It’s with the other equipment in Dmitri’s room. I’ll give you the guided tour as soon as we’re done for the day.”
Satisfied, Brock sits back as Dmitri spins his computer around for the group to see.
He describes what he and Dominic had been up to for the past month. Almost immediately they’d located the Shindan office in a shabby building in a rundown area of Bangkok. After a few of weeks of surveillance they were able to infiltrate it.
“Security was ridiculous,” notes Dominic.
“Hard to get in?” asks Brock.
“Hell no,” replies Dmitri. “It was a joke. They front as a small call centre with a shockingly high turnover rate. We cobbled together fake employee badges from photos we took on the street. There are only a handful of regulars there and they might as well advertise their daily schedules. All that together, and a little bullshit, and we were in.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be a…” says Brock, making a paddling action with his hand as though he’s flipping through a card file. A moment later he holds his hand up and completes the question, “executive… something or other?”
“They’re supposed to be a lot of things,” answers Dmitri. “They’ve assumed a bunch of covers over the years. Always with the same name for some strange reason.”
He looks over at Dominic to continue.
Taking the cue, Dominic nods and says, “It turns out that the one thing Shindan did right was to keep their secret data isolated in a locked room. If we’re going to get any answers, that’s probably our best bet. In the case of an emergency that room is to be evacuated to another secure location and that’s going to be the ideal time.”
“What kind of emergency?” asks Rebekah.
“Dmitri’s got that covered,” responds Dominic.
“A little bug in the call centre’s computers should give us some cover,” explains Dmitri. “A little long-lasting laxative in certain people’s food might help too.”
“We don’t know if we’re going to get another chance at this so we’re going to hit this from multiple angles,” continues Dominic. “I’m already known there so Brock and me are going into the office to peek into the secure room.
“Dmitri will be running cover. Rebekah, Elvis, and Mira will be on point for any trouble. If the data’s in motion before Brock and I can get to it then they’ll be chasing and we’ll be backup.”
There’s a silence around the table. Brock and Elvis have visible looks of concern. Rebekah is resting her head on her fist in thought.
“We still have plenty of time to tweak and rehearse,” assures Dominic. “After breakfast we’re taking a trip up the river to the district where the office is. We’ll look around the area discreetly and you can judge for yourselves.”
“We consulted with the agency on this,” notes Dmitri, “but the intel we’ve gotten so far is too general, too broad. We’re going to need Rebekah’s output to help narrow it down.”
“Why only Rebekah?” asks Brock.
“The pod needs time to tune into you,” responds Elvis cheerfully. “Or do you need to tune into it? I forget. Anyway, it won’t produce reliable output until it’s calibrated.”
“That sounds weird and vaguely terrifying but I’ll have to take your word for it,” says Brock with feigned disappointment.
Having returned the bag and laptop back to the room, the group reassembles in the lobby-cum-dining-room and heads out. They make their way past the temple that Brock and Mira had passed through recently and continue toward the banks of the Chao Phraya river. There they board two of the ubiquitous water taxis and head north.
Rebekah and Dmitri are aboard a colourful craft pulling away from the pier. In the boat following them sit Dominic and Mira with Brock and Elvis on the bench behind them.
Brock is thankful for the overhead canopy as the intense morning sunshine beats down over the sprawling metropolis, blinding reflections glancing off of the river’s small waves.
Despite the racket of the bustling waterway, the gentle rocking of the craft lulls Brock into a swaying sense of quietude. He takes in the the modern Bangkok skyline, the bustling and grimy streets, the tranquil oases of shady temples.
Soon they turn into a narrower canal lined with corrugated tin roof houses in front of which squat vendors on numerous long boats, conducting business and engaging in boisterous conversation. Brock is distracted by the sight of an exceptionally large and dangerous-looking durian being passed around when Mirabelle sits up in her seat and turns around to face him.
She sits for a moment with a distracted look on her face, as though she’s listening for something. Recognizing the look, Brock observes her with patient intensity. Only Elvis is unfocused as he swings a confused expression between them.
Suddenly Mirabelle bursts out, “Down! Get down now! Everyone, get down!”
She frantically motions for Brock, Elvis, and Dominic to get as low in the boat as possible. Uncertain why, they nevertheless do as instructed. A moment later, a pop like a loud firework can be heard from somewhere nearby.
It’s not until the second pop, followed immediately by a high-pitched whiz and a sudden thudding burst of splinters at his side, that Brock begins to understand what’s happening.
They’re being shot at.
As though a light switch has just been flicked, a fully-formed plan appears in Brock’s mind.
“Jump overboard and grab the boatfenders!” he commands.
Elvis is frozen, looking more puzzled than before. Another shot goes off.
“The tires on the side of the boat!” explains Brock urgently. “Grab the tires!”
The look on Elvis’ face changes from confusion to uncertainty as he rolls over the side of the taxi. Mira follows as another gunshot is registered by the other passengers. Panic breaks out and they begin to leap into the river in mindless imitation. Dominic is last to go as Brock scrambles over the backless seats toward the engine.
The taxi is now drifting as Brock implores the cowering captain to accelerate. He does and they lurch forward as Brock pokes his head up over the lip of the boat, quickly scanning the opposite shore. He follows the gazes of the panicking crowd to spot the gunman, a tanned thin man wearing an unbuttoned blue shirt and shorts, head enveloped in a black motorcycle helmet, eyes hidden by mirror shades. He’s wrestling with some kind of rifle, desperately trying to pull open some jammed mechanism. Behind him on a lean dirt bike and revving the loud engine impatiently sits a similar man.
Brock takes the opportunity to look over the other side of the boat. He’s relieved to see Mirabelle, Dominic, and Elvis clinging tightly to the tires on the outside of the taxi. The taxi’s other passengers are splashing wildly toward the nearest shore.
A little further up the canal the occupants of the first boat are also scrambling through the water. Among them are the bobbing heads of Rebekah and Dmitri.
Brock spins around and directs the captain to head in their direction as another round is fired from the opposite shore. Brock dives for the bottom of the boat and waits, estimating how long before they reach Dmitri and Rebekah. Echoing shrieks of terror fill the air around him.
The sound of another shot reverberates between buildings shortly before Brock pops his head up and over the edge of the boat again. Confirming the distance, he turns around intending to demand that the captain stop the engine only to find that the power has already been cut, the captain occupied with clutching his bloodied arm while grimacing in pain.
Brock shouts at Rebekah and Dmitri, instructing them to grab the same tires that Dominic, Elvis, and Mirabelle are embracing. They do so as Brock maneuvers himself to the tiller. There he pantomimes his intentions of driving the boat to the captain who temporarily releases his bleeding arm to point to the vibrating throttle.
“Everyone ready?!” he yells as he grabs the the wobbling rod.
A number of affirmative responses are returned and Brock turns the throttle as far as he can. Once again the water taxi jumps forward and into the choppy waters of the canal. After a few moments he glances back to see that the assassin has jumped on the back of his partner’s motorbike and the two are speeding away in another direction.
Brock releases the throttle and aims the ship toward a nearby pier. As it approaches he studies the dock, jumps into the canal, and guides his group toward the ladder he’s spotted. They pull themselves wearily out of the water and assemble on the wooden boarding area.
By the time the river taxi taps the landing with a soft thud and the injured captain stumbles out into the gathering crowd, the members of Section B have disappeared.