It’s around noon when the retrieval team returns, almost all hobbling into the courtyard under the weight of multiple bags and luggage. Only Mirabelle has a single suitcase, one on wheels that she’s dragging behind her.
Opposite the group, the monk in the casually-worn orange robe is saying something quietly to Brock and Elvis.
The retrieval team place their bags warily at their feet as Brock introduces the man. “This is Kevin,” he says. “He’s offered to help us.”
The team stare at the trio uneasily.
“Hi,” says Kevin, offering hesitantly received handshakes. “Didn’t mean to barge in on you like this. I was just sitting here in the temple when you guys arrived. Couldn’t help but overhear, thought I might be able to help.”
Rebekah pulls off her sunglasses and covertly casts an accusing glance at Brock.
“I told our friend Kevin here,” responds Brock, disengaging with Rebekah’s gaze, “about our investigation into Shindan. For the documentary. I told him about how dangerous things have gotten for us recently, how we suddenly have to walk around like” — hooking his fingers into air quotes — “secret agents.”
“Scam call centres, huh?” asks Kevin as he rubs his hand over his stubbly head. “Jeez, I didn’t realize they could be so ruthless!”
Rebekah raises an eyebrow and nods approvingly in Brock’s direction.
Dmitri perks up, introduces himself, and takes over the conversation. With occasional cues from Brock he adds filmmaking insights, convincing statistics, and harrowing first-person accounts from victims of Shindan. Dominic includes a confirming nod every now and again. Mira leans back, indifferent.
At the conclusion of the impromptu presentation Kevin stands shaking his head in disapproval. “That’s terrible,” he responds with concern, “and that they would shoot at you like that, out in broad daylight, in front of all those witnesses. Terrible. Know what? Me and the brothers have a little place not far from here. It’s private, give you a chance to catch your breath.”
“Can we have a moment?” asks Rebekah, holding up a finger. With the same finger she makes little circles in the air, signalling for a group huddle.
Section B assemble a couple of meters away from Kevin who stands smiling patiently in the shade of the expansive tree.
“I don’t remember seeing anyone else here. Where the hell did this guy come from?” asks Rebekah rigidly, eyes shut tightly, one hand on her hip and the other squeezing the bridge of her nose.
“He was over there the whole time, just hanging out,” replies Elvis, pointing to a secluded nook camouflaged behind a crumbling wall.
Dominic pinches his lower lip reflexively. Dmitri scratches behind his ear. Mirabelle stands motionless.
Suddenly changing topics Rebekah asks, “You feeling better?” as Elvis turns back to face her.
“Yeah,” he responds. “Brock’s gonna teach me a few things. No way am I repeating the river.”
“Actually,” says Dominic as he releases his lip and turns to Brock, “we could all use a few pointers. That was quick thinking. Thanks.”
The rest of Section B nod tacitly, including Mirabelle.
“I wasn’t thinking, ” says Brock, blocking their attention with open palms.
“Still…” rejoins Dmitri, tilting his head sideways.
“Okay, well, you’re welcome,” accepts Brock with a meek smile.
After a brief pause Rebekah continues, “So what’s the deal with this Kevin guy? He seems shifty. How do we know we can trust him?”
“I don’t know that we can,” replies Brock, “but I don’t know that we have much choice at the moment. Besides, if he was going to try to assassinate us he’s already had some good opportunities. Like right now.”
“Something off about him anyway,” concludes Rebekah, trailing off into silence.
“What about the…?” interjects Dmitri, pointing a jumpy finger at his mouth.
“Grew up in the States, Denver I think,” takes over Elvis. “Basically American. Came here a few years ago for a family reunion and decided to stay.”
“And the Buddhist thing?” inquires Dmitri.
“Probably better you ask him yourself,” suggests Elvis. “But he seems alright.”
The rest of the group turn to Brock for a secondary affirmation. He delivers with a nod.
Rebekah pulls herself out of the circle, turns toward Kevin, and with a deep sigh says, “Okay then. Lead on.”
The bags and luggage are redistributed and the group leaves back onto the streets of Bangkok. After a few minutes Brock motions for Rebekah to hang back with him. “How did it go back there at the New Siam?” he asks.
“Strange,” she replies. “We didn’t see anything suspicious. Doesn’t look like anything was tampered with. Dmitri wasn’t able to find any tracking bugs. Mira says she didn’t see any surveillance. Nothing. How is it that they can find us on random river boats but they can’t seem to find us at the hotel we’ve been staying at for, like, a month?”
Brock watches her ruminate for a few moments before she swivels and bows her head, as though arriving at a conclusion.
“Any ideas?” he asks.
For a moment the angle of her head reveals anxious eyes behind her sunglasses. She quickly yanks her head up to look at him, pulling her mouth down into a controlled, emotionless expression.
“No,” she replies bluntly.
“You doing okay?” he asks with concern.
“It’s nothing. Guess I’m still a little shaky from the river.”
Brock decides against prying further and they continue to trail silently behind the group.
Not long after, they arrive at a large, semi-cylindrical structure similar to an airplane hangar. The far end of the corrugated arch opens onto a canal and houses a number of ornate boats parked along narrow berths. To one side sits a small, elevated shed with grimy windows and rickety stairs, stacked boxes and containers blocking the underside.
The side through which Section B enters is packed with tens of mostly bald monks in saffron robes selling shiny trinkets and assorted knick-knacks from rickety tables. A few tourists are looking over the merchandise.
Coming to a stop, the Section take in their surroundings and occasionally exchange confused glances as their guide consults with a nearby monk. He soon returns with a broad smile and bearing a small parcel wrapped in paper, tied with a faded red string.
“Good news! Gary says we can use the storage space,” Kevin says enthusiastically, pointing to the dilapidated shack at the back. “And,” he continues, handing the parcel to Rebekah, “he sends you a good luck gift. His best tea.”
Rebekah accepts the package with a weak “Thanks” and an uncertain smile, then quickly turns her attention to the shack. She sets off anxiously while the rest of the group follow at a more leisurely pace. Kevin quickly overtakes them all, arriving first at the door of the tiny house. He fiddles with the rusty handle until it gives way just as everyone arrives.
The peeling plywood door opens into a dusty space filled with assorted boxes, cans, barrels, and chairs. In one corner a trap door with a thick wooden rope attached sits ajar. Brock pulls on the rope to reveal a precarious tin ladder leading down to a wooden floor. The ample daylight below the shack suggests that the area is open to the river.
With a single light bulb illuminating the busy room, the team quickly clear out a work area and begin unpacking. Saying he’ll be back soon, Kevin excuses himself and leaves.
“Gary,” says Rebekah as she tucks the weighty leather bag behind some larger boxes, “and Kevin.” Standing up and looking back and forth between Brock and Elvis she asks, “You guys buying this?”
They both shrug.
She shrugs back a surrendered acceptance and proceeds to unpack her computer equipment.
In the meantime, Dmitri motions for Brock to come over as he opens a large white plastic suitcase. “Custom made,” notes Dmitri as he points at the lid. Inside sit a number of stacked white panels with regularly spaced holes along their edges. A number of curved aluminum tubes sit alongside the panels. A few nylon straps poke out in random spots.
“What is this?” asks Brock as Dmitri pulls out the pieces and arranges them into groups on the floor.
“The pod,” responds Dmitri with a smile. “What’s Rebekah told you about it?”
“Not much. I’m going to need the full tour.”
“Then let’s get started,” invites Dmitri, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.
In about ten minutes they’ve assembled the small, angular, egg-shaped enclosure. A hinge on one end allows the lightweight structure to open horizontally. Inside, the supporting pipes form a lattice across which nylon straps are secured to produce a sort of sparse hammock-style recliner.
“Give it a try,” suggests Dmitri as he fastens the final panel into place.
Brock steps in and gingerly lowers himself into the nylon straps. The seat is surprisingly comfortable, making him feel like he’s floating just above the ground. As Dmitri lowers the lid, Brock is unprepared for the sudden, total, obliterating darkness. Even more surprising is the complete lack of sound. A moment later Dmitri raises the lid and helps him out.
“Without the electronics it’s just a nice place for a nap,” notes Dmitri as he retrieves what looks like a thick laptop bag. Opening it, he pulls out something resembling a flat panel fan with a sturdy arm supporting the blade assembly.
“Rotary subwoofer,” explains Dmitri as he straps the device securely to the metal pipes below the pod’s seat. Running a wire from the device through a small rubberized slit near the hinge he continues, “It produces infrasound, bass so deep you can only feel it.”
Dmitri rummages around in another bag and extracts a long strip of LED lights which he installs inside the bottom half of the pod, guiding the electrical leads through the hinge slit.
Next from the bag, a large headset with swivelling microphone and a small plastic square that looks like a keyboard’s numeric keypad are slung over one of the pod’s aluminum struts. Brock helps to pull their USB connectors through the rubberized opening.
From the same bag Dmitri pulls out two black bricks that resemble hefty laptop computer power supplies. He connects these to the light strips and the rotary subwoofer. Finally, he retrieves Rebekah’s laptop and connects it to the headphones, keypad, and the unconnected ends of the black bricks.
“This is where the magic happens,” concludes Dmitri as he boots up the laptop. “It runs the entrainment sequences and records our reports. Those are then fed into our neural networks which produce discrete intelligence outputs. We collate these, analyze them, and extrapolate a message.”
Brock blinks vacantly at Dmitri.
“The computer makes sound, light, and air pressure inside the pod vibrate at certain frequencies,” Dmitri explains at a noticeably slowed pace.
“Uh-huh,” nods Brock, still looking somewhat lost.
“It’s based on a very old musical phenomenon. Piano tuners, to do their job, had to hold a tuning fork up to one ear while listening to a vibrating piano string with the other. If the two tones weren’t perfectly in tune the difference between them would be heard as a sort of interference pattern by the brain, like a beat. Later it was discovered that, like a radio, the brain tunes itself to this interference pattern if exposed to it for extended periods. The pod works on the same principle, except that we have the benefits of modern technology.”
“So you’re tuning into like, what … thoughts?” asks Brock with a slow and uncertain head shake.
“Active thoughts are sent, passive impressions are received,” explains Dmitri. “We record the impressions” — he taps on the headset’s microphone –“and feed them to a neural network uniquely tuned to the individual agent. Mine won’t work for you, yours won’t work for me.”
“What’s a neural network?”
“It’s a pattern recognition algorithm, a computer program. It looks at data to find meaningful patterns which it then uses to produce the output.”
“What kind of output?”
“Usually just a word or two. Alone they’re not that useful so we have to collate, combine all of our outputs and analyze them together. Obviously, having more tuned agents” — he nods at Brock — “is useful. Effectively increases our bandwidth.”
“And how sure are you that the collated output is accurate?”
“Pretty fucking sure.”
As Dmitri completes the automated tests on the laptop, Rebekah walks up and inquires if the pod is ready. With a nod Dmitri opens the upper half of the tiny chamber and invites her to step in.
“No stimulants this time,” she says as she lowers herself into the mesh seat and slips the headset over her ears. Listening intently, she hits a couple of keys on the numeric keypad before holding out a thumbs-up.
Dmitri closes the lid and turns to Brock, noting, “She’s going to be in there for a while.”
“What happens now?” asks Brock.
“We combine her output with ours to see if we can make sense of it,” replies Dmitri with a discomforted expression.
“What output did you get?” inquires Brock.
“Just a couple of words. I got blue, Dom got red,” responds Dmitri, still looking worried. “Pretty vague, right? They could mean almost anything.”
“And wouldn’t they be outdated now?” Brock asks earnestly. “I mean, in light of our present situation, shouldn’t we get some new outputs?”
“Doesn’t work that way. Time or circumstance have little effect on agency communications. It’s more about closing the loop, completing the action. Trust me, right now we need Rebekah’s output.”
Brock quietly accepts the explanation and moves a little closer.
“Hey, Dmitri,” he asks, head and voice lowered, “be honest with me. This, all of it, is pretty fucking weird, right?”
Dmitri smiles broadly. “Very. Very fucking weird. But also until recently” — he grins and directs Brock’s attention to their surroundings — “it’s been mostly positive.”
He moves over to join the conversation between Dominic, Elvis, and Mirabelle. Brock follows.
Over the next hour the group speculate on the two words, the planned incursion into Shindan Academy, and the misgivings they have about both.
At one point Kevin returns with a basket of warm food, bottles of chilled water, and news that he’s coordinated a diversion in case they’d been followed. He then explains how best to get through the trap door, the side exit, and the alley, unseen.
“What’re you getting out of this, Kevin?” asks Dominic bluntly as he unrolls a sticky rice cake out of its roasted banana leaf wrapper.
Kevin stands motionless, a look of puzzled amusement playing across his face.
“I had a dream about you guys last night,” he finally responds. “You know what they say about dreaming monks.”
With a look of increasing skepticism Dominic searches his memory. Just as he’s about to rebut Kevin’s statement he’s interrupted by a sharp alarm from the computer. Abandoning his reply, he and Dmitri open the pod and assist Rebekah out of the device.
She’s blinking slowly and heavily as she tries to focus her eyes, her movements disoriented and unbalanced.
“She’ll be fine in a few minutes,” reassures Dominic.
They place her on a chair and stand guard as she slowly lowers her face into her palms. She sits like that for a few minutes, breathing heavily and evenly. Eventually she sits up, more alert and sober. Dmitri hands her a rice cake and she bites into it silently.
“Urs rope,” says Mirabelle, breaking the sombre silence. “What does zis mean?”
Everyone follows Mirabelle’s stare to see the words “EARTH” and “ROPE” prominently displayed on the computer’s screen.
“Blue, red, earth, rope,” says Dominic vacantly as he’s plunged deep into mental effort. Dmitri holds his chin as he considers the new information. Elvis screws up his face as he mentally manipulates the words while Mirabelle stares pensively into a corner of the little house. Brock frowns in thought.
Suddenly, Kevin stands in the open door of the small chamber carrying a tray of glossy red cubes, a tin tea pot, and some worn tin cups. “Papaya and some hot water in case you want to try that tea,” he says, setting the tray down on a nearby barrel.
“What’s in this anyway?” asks Dominic, holding up Rebekah’s package.
“Just a sec,” replies Kevin as he hurries back out to the sales area. He returns quickly with Gary in tow. In front of the group Kevin asks the old, dark, sagging man a question in Thai. Gary’s response is translated back to the group.
“He says it has many herbs,” says Kevin. “I don’t know the English names. They’re supposed to help you ease your mind, find solutions to your problems.”
Dominic holds the package up to his nose. “Smells like dirt,” he remarks. Kevin translates and both he and Gary laugh. “That’s probably the mushroom,” says Kevin.
“Mushroom?” asks Dominic with concern. “What kind of mushroom?”
Listening to Gary, Kevin replies hesitantly, “Yeah, no idea how to translate that. He said they’re pretty small. Not very special except they” — he pauses to clarify with Gary — “become blue if you hurt them.”
“Blue?” asks Dominic with increasing confusion. “What kind of mushroom–“
“Oh no no no,” cuts in Rebekah through a mouthful of rice as she recoils with increasing alarm. “What’s the name of this tea?” she asks Kevin.
Hesitantly translating Gary’s response he says, “I’d guess you’d say blue underground tea. Or maybe blue soil. Something like that. Gary makes it himself. It’s very good quality.”
Gary produces a gnarled thumbs-up and adds a mangled, “Velly good!”
“How about blue earth?” she asks, meeting Kevin’s gaze with concern.
“Hey, yeah,” he replies, his face sliding into a delighted smile. “That’s much better. You speak Thai?”
Flatly ignoring his question she turns to Dmitri and asks, “Do any of those burners have internet access?”
“Yeah, but it’s crappy,” he replies, puzzled.
“That’s fine. Can you get me one please?” she asks tensely.
“Okay, that’s blue earth but what about rope and red?” asks Elvis while behind him Dmitri digs through one of the bags.
Rebekah points to the string around the package in Dominic’s hand.
“Oh shit,” replies Elvis with surprise.
Dmitri returns with a cheap generic Android phone. Pulling up the phone’s browser she performs a quick search.
“Like this?” she asks, flipping the phone over to show the screen to Gary.
The gummy smile embedded in Gary’s deeply creased face accompanies the vigorous, fleshy nod of his head. To make certain, a knobby finger points to the positively identified object on the screen. “Yeah, that’s it,” adds Kevin unnecessarily.
Dominic grabs the phone from Rebekah and reads the display’s contents. With a stunned look he slowly lowers his muscular arm, relinquishing the device to Dmitri.
“Oh … no fucking way,” says Dmitri emphatically while staring at the phone, a look of intense apprehension taking over his face.