“… why it’s called deterministic,” Dmitri says to Elvis with a huff, bags piled under both arms. “That’s the only way I can think of to tell us from the machines these days.”
Labouring under his own load, Elvis asks, “So people get more like thirty percent and computers get twenty-five?”
“Yeah,” replies Dmitri, “on average, over time, if it’s a genuinely random one-in-four choice. But you’d need to run thousands of trials. Maybe tens of thousands.”
“What happens if someone scores less than twenty-five?” inquires Elvis between breaths, hands curled around the numerous shoulder straps criss-crossing his body.
“That’s something too,” responds Dmitri, sweat trickling down his face and over his mustache. “Basically any sizeable deviation from the odds, you’re probably looking at a human.”
“Or a psychic machine,” injects Elvis, head down.
“Yeah,” acknowledges Dmitri, slowly pulling the straps off of his shoulders. “Perish the thought.”
The group has arrived back at the courtyard. Dmitri and Elvis gratefully plop their bags onto the cracked concrete ground. Dominic and Mirabelle follow behind, ending their own conversation as they unburden themselves.
“I didn’t think you guys were coming back,” says Rebekah dejectedly, sitting spent and hunched on a stone, head drooping down into her hands. Brock is reclined beside her, head rolled back, mouth slightly open, fully asleep.
“Figured we’d kill two birds with one stone,” replies Dominic, easing himself onto a nearby perch and wiping his glistening head with a dark cloth.
“How so?” asks Rebekah sullenly.
“If you weren’t gonna tell us anything,” he explains, “then we’d just ask the agency. Pick up our stuff while we were at it.”
“You were gone a while,” says Rebekah quietly, slowly lifting her head, revealing bloodshot eyes. She mumbles, “Same place Mister Hand-Cannons found us. Brave.”
“No more than sitting here,” replies Dmitri flatly.
She considers his words and after some time nods, noting, “So I guess the agency spilled the beans.”
A sudden ray of brilliant sunshine pierces the humid haze over the top of the courtyard’s east wall. From somewhere in the trees a bird acknowledges the appearance of the light with a complex and joyful trill. A gentle breeze ruffles the leaves, bringing with it the scents of a new day.
“Your folks, yeah?” asks Dmitri, fanning himself with an improvised paper fan.
“Yeah,” confirms Rebekah without affect, sagging back into a downcast posture.
“Ruh-bek-ah Hain-rik,” says Mirabelle to herself slowly, mouth stretching around the foreign words.
Rebekah shakes her head and shrugs. “Yeah, so now you know.”
“I don’t get it,” says Elvis as he rests against his pile of bags and containers. “What do your parents have to do with anything and why would they be trying to kill us?”
“They founded the agency,” responds Rebekah distractedly, “and they aren’t. They wouldn’t be.”
Everyone draws back in puzzlement at her words.
After a few moments of visible inner torment Rebekah bursts out, “Fuck! I knew this seemed too obvious! I was so fucking careful. No one knew. No one.”
“Your parents founded the agency?” asks Elvis on behalf of the perplexed group.
Dominic and Dmitri lean in with assertive nods while Mirabelle leans back, arms crossed in anticipation. Brock continues to sleep soundly.
“What?” asks Rebekah, snapping out of her mental maelstrom with a vigorous head shake. “Oh … yeah. I’m sure I told Dom and Dmitri some of this.”
“I don’t remember ever hearing this about your family,” responds Dmitri.
“Yup,” includes Dominic, nodding in stern agreement.
“Well, I had good reasons didn’t I?” asks Rebekah in meek defiance.
“Hang on,” interjects Elvis with an upraised index finger. “I was under the impression that the agency has, like, always been around. How could your parents have founded it?”
“I don’t remember,” replies Rebekah despondently, “They told me a bunch of times but I didn’t really pay much attention. I was a kid, then I was a teenager, you know?”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?” asks Dmitri with an acknowledging nod.
“Years,” she replies dryly. “We barely communicate and when we do it’s over disposable channels.”
“Meaning?” inquires Dominic.
“That they’re used once and thrown away,” she explains. “A one-time code for encryption and a one-time email for receiving. They have to be premade so we only have so many.”
“I’m thinking that right about now might be a good time to use one,” states Dmitri assertively.
“Except that we don’t really know what most of that paperwork says,” counters Dominic, pointing at the box from the train. “Let’s translate it before making any assumptions.”
Dmitri concedes with a tilted nod and the conversation goes silent.
The growing heat and lack of sleep are starting to take their toll as the members of Section B alternately nod off. Only Rebekah continues to sit and stare fixedly ahead, deep in thought, arms around her legs, chin on her knees.
An hour later even she has fallen asleep.
As the sun rises higher above the east wall of the courtyard it outlines two figures, their shadows splayed out over the slumbering group.
Brock is awoken by the unnerving feeling of a foreign presence nearby. He squints painfully against the blinding light of the morning sun, trying to define the source of the intrusion. After a few moments he can make out the black shapes of the two people. They’re both clean-cut East Asian men with similarly parted black hair and wearing what look like casual black-and-white naval uniforms. Both are smiling.
“Ah, good morning!” says the nearer one, springing forward over Mirabelle and Elvis with an extended hand. Brock gives it a brisk shake and the man quickly retreats back to his original position.
“Can I help you?” asks Brock, sitting up and blocking the savage solar rays with his hand.
“Well, sir, I actually think we may be of assistance to you,” responds the man in a mellow baritone tinged with Japanese.
The conversation has roused Elvis and Mirabelle who observe groggily through half-closed eyes.
“Oh? How can you help us?” asks Brock reservedly.
“Not to be too blunt about it,” opens the man, hands extended in a gesture of offering, “but we are probably your best option to get safely out of Thailand and back home. At this point the police will certainly be looking for you as, it seems, may be some others.”
“Hold on,” says Brock, halting the man with an extended palm. “Who are you again?”
“Ah,” replies the man, stepping forward slightly. “I’m afraid that we don’t use real names. I invite you to call me by whatever name you like, or if you prefer, I can suggest one.”
“Okay, pick one,” instructs Brock.
“Very good, sir. Call me OpOne. One because I’m the the captain and Op because I’m also an operator. Of the vessel.”
“Very inventive,” observes Brock with mild sarcasm.
“Yes,” responds OpOne through a pristine smile. Pointing at the silhouette next to him, he continues, “which would make this fellow OpTwo”.
The other man steps forward, smile beaming, and bows his head briefly before returning to his spot behind OpOne.
“Okay, good, good,” repeats Brock, nodding his head mechanically. “Well that really clears things up.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I misunderstood your question,” responds OpOne with deference. “Were you asking who we are as an organization? Or perhaps you wanted to know how we came to be hired for this voyage?”
“For starters,” nods Brock.
“Ah, yes, well, unfortunately neither myself nor the rest of the crew know the identity of the client. The firm we work for, a sort of international shipping concern, goes to great lengths to maintain the anonymity of our customers. We are paid handsomely and take precautions to remain as ignorant of such matters as possible. It’s better for everyone involved.”
“So some anonymous person, or people, hired you to get us out of Thailand?” asks Brock incredulously.
“And back home. Yes, sir,” responds OpOne. Behind him, OpTwo nods cheerfully in agreement.
“Why?” asks Brock pointedly.
By now everyone but Rebekah has woken up and are paying attention to the exchange.
“The client’s intentions are unfortunately not something I’m privy to,” responds OpOne calmly, almost as though he’d rehearsed it. “As for myself, well, as I mentioned, the remuneration is generous.”
“And how did you find us?” asks Brock in the same direct manner.
“We were given approximate information about where to find you. After that …” says OpOne as he steps aside and invites his colleague to come forward.
“I forrow you,” opens OpTwo in much rougher English, flashing a friendly smile around the group.
“You spied on us?” asks Dmitri, rising suddenly from his hitherto silent recline.
“Yes, I spy,” replies OpTwo, slowly shaking his head with disapproval. “You make too easy. Need better technique.”
“Apparently,” notes Dmitri with a concerned frown.
“I see some probrem,” continues OpTwo. “I see bang bang” — he lifts his hands up to imitate holding a rifle — “at river. I see ze Shindan. I see ze train. I see ze Thairand porice.” With increasing severity he concludes, “Today, here, very dangerous.”
“How do we know you’re not just another problem?” asks Dominic, now fully alert.
“Thank you,” says OpOne to OpTwo, ushering him back to his original spot.
“If I may be blunt for a moment longer,” says OpOne, turning to Dominic with directed sincerity, “I would suggest that we would have had ample opportunity to engage in problematic activity while you slept. I can assure you, sir, that our sole priority is to get you home, safely, and in comfort.”
Dominic shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. “We’ll need some time to think this over,” he says, looking over at Rebekah.
“I understand,” accepts OpOne with a genial nod. Holding out a few business cards he offers, “Just call that number when you decide. It’s toll-free and I have the other end.” With his other hand he holds up a plain black mobile phone. “We’ve been instructed to stay in port for a few more days but, and I say this with all due respect, given your position I would recommend not waiting too long.”
Brock grabs one of the cards and examines it. Only the word “MERLE” and a telephone number appear on the simple surface. “Déjà vu,” he remarks quietly to himself.
Seemingly completing his thought Mirabelle remarks, “I sink I know zis,” as she examines her own card. “In French, Merle is, ‘ow do you call zis?” –she pauses contemplatively– “oh, oui, ze black bird.”
“Very astute!” responds OpOne enthusiastically.
“And what exactly is the Merle?” asks Brock with a prompting tilt of the head.
“A luxury yacht,” responds OpOne with continued confidence.
For the next few moments the only sound that can be heard is the tense and uncertain flicking of the third business card between Dominic’s twitchy fingers.
“Again, the number is toll-free from any phone,” says OpOne, breaking the silence with a snappy dip of the head and then exiting the courtyard. OpTwo follows suit.
The members of Section B watch the two crew of the Merle leave just as Rebekah begins to stir. For many lethargic moments she struggles to peel her sleep-encrusted eyelids open. Finally, in a raspy whisper she asks, “Did I miss anything?”
Dmitri laughs out loud. “Yeah, a little bit.”
As the sun rises higher, the Section convene over late breakfast procured from a nearby street vendor. The sticky rice in banana leaf and warm soy milk add a sense of calm to their deliberations.
After about an hour the decision is made; Rebekah will burn a one-time conduit to her parents using the satellite uplink. She warns, however, that they may take some days to respond so in the meantime Dmitri will call OpOne and arrange for Section B to get out of Thailand.
As the rest of the team scout for unobstructed lines of sight to the communication satellites, Dmitri convinces a shopkeeper to let him use her phone. Her dark and weathered face watches intently as he dials the number, a mostly toothless grin signalling her approval.
“Hello?” he says into the phone a few moments later. “Yes, we decided to take you up on your offer … yes, it is … okay, yeah, I know where that is … and what? … why are we going there? … oh, wow, that’s gonna be … really? … yeah, okay, I get it. I understand. I’ll let the team know.”
“Khop khun krap,” he says in his best Thai to the old woman, hands her back her phone, and wanders off toward the rest of the team with a look of mild apprehension on his face.
Dmitri rejoins Section B on a bridge over a wide river where they are setting up the communication equipment. As he angles the small satellite dish up toward the clear blue sky Brock inquires, “So what’s the news?”
“Good. We’re set to meet a couple of Blackbird’s people a few blocks away from our old guest house,” explains Dmitri. “From there we’re going north into the jungle.”
“I thought we were leaving by boat,” asks Brock, puzzled.
“We are,” confirms Dmitri, “but we can’t just waltz on down to the port and hop on. There’s customs and security and all that.”
“So how are we getting there?” inquires Brock.
“We’re being flown in,” responds Dmitri, eyebrow raised provocatively.