“I belief it vould haff been some time in nineteen seventy or zo, about a year after vee first met. Arti und me vur discussing ze problems of humanity. You see, vee are both children of ze so-called post-var period, which was of course before Vietnam und all ze rest,” begins Cornelius.
“This is why we resisted having a child for so long,” includes Arti. “We didn’t want to subject our son or daughter to what we ourselves had experienced. During the Second World War my father was killed fighting for the British and Corni’s father went MIA on the German side. Both of them were quite zealous and eager to destroy the enemy.”
“Our union is difficult to explain to such people,” continues Cornelius, gazing lovingly at his wife. “Despite ze evidence, zey still belief in ze righteousness and superiority of zeir ideologies. Sadly, ze same cycles of mizery und horror are set to repeat. Very little haz been gained from ze lessons of history. Very little has been learned.”
A brief but grim silence follows.
Breaking the lull, Brock glances over at Rebekah and lightheartedly notes, “If nothing else, at least we’ve learned where the accent comes from.”
“My accent?” she asks with genuine puzzlement.
“Yeah, sometimes you have an accent,” confirms Dmitri with a head tilt to Brock. “Comes and goes. It’s the way you pronounce some words, how you emphasize certain syllables, your intonation. It’s rare but it’s there.”
“How come no one’s ever mentioned this to me before?” she asks, mildly taken aback.
“I assumed you knew,” explains Dmitri. “Besides, it never seemed important.”
Rebekah silently accepts his clarification with a slight nod and raised brows.
The matter seemingly being settled, Brock turns to her parents, offers an apology for his wry interruption, and asks them to continue.
“Qvite alright,” resumes Cornelius with a warm smile. “I vas only going say zat Krieg und Politik sind Scheiße … var und politics are shit. Nationalism is for veek minds und ze naive azzume zat ze second vorld var vas ze final vun, zat finally humanity had emerged from its stupor.”
“Indeed,” adds Arti. “Yet what could one or two people possibly hope to achieve against such overwhelming forces? Stern words are no match for tanks and bullets but what does that leave? More violence and destruction cannot be the answer. As Corni points out, history has made this abundantly clear.”
“Ya, zis is precizely vat vee vur discussing ven ze agency first became known to us,” interjects Cornelius. “You see, vee vur valking srough an antiquarian book store at ze time. I recall zat ve had bose simultaneously said somesing like, ‘Zen vat hope is zere?’, und zen it happened.
“At zat immediate moment a book dropped from a shelf in front of us, just right zere”, he says, motioning to the floor in front of him. “It landed open to a specific page. I picked it up und zere next to my sumb vur ze vords ‘Agency of Exterior Intelligence’. You see? So vee immediately purchased it und read it cover to cover,” continues Cornelius.
Arti jumps in, saying, “During that period Corni was studying the more esoteric works or Carl Jung and in India the idea of siddhis is quite common, so one could say that we were both receptive to the book’s concepts. However, it had simply never crossed our minds to consider them in this context.”
“Siddhis?” interrupts Dominic.
“In the West they would be called psychic, paranormal, or perhaps magical powers,” explains Arti. “Siddhis are traditionally considered byproducts of yoga practice but they can manifest spontaneously. Synchronicity also plays a large part in the process. Had we been sitting in that spot, in that book shop, the answer to our question would quite literally have dropped into our lap.
“Between the subject matter and the manner in which we received it, we felt that we simply couldn’t ignore such providence. So, after some further research, we gathered together a small group of like-minded friends and decided to perform something like a séance. We didn’t call it a séance but having little else to go on at the time we opted to use similar methods.
“During our first session the twelve of us sat around the table for approximately an hour before the first tap occurred. We were all somewhat incredulous yet, try as we may, we couldn’t explain how the sound had been produced. It seemed to come from somewhere in the middle of the table top, from inside of the wood itself. After a few minutes it happened again, then again, and quite soon there was a regular tapping.
“After some time the sound grew to a loud crack, as though the wood were splitting. We understood then that we needed to refine our approach so we came up with a simple protocol for answers to our questions” — she picks up an ornate tea cup from a side table and takes a sip — “one crack for yes and two cracks for no. We soon realized, however, that our binary code would be unsuitable for more complex questions and so we asked about better alternatives. The loudest and most persistent response came at the suggestion of using an Ouija board, so we acquired one for our next meeting.
“As the first inquiry under our revised approach we asked the entity to tell us its name. With our fingertips on the planchette the answer was quickly spelled out. There was some skepticism in our group so we decided to ask again but this time we would try something more convincing. As before, the planchette began to spell out A – G – E at which point we all lifted our fingers.
“To our collective astonishment, the planchette continued to move by itself to complete the word … N – C – Y. Two of our group became so alarmed by this that they left immediately. The rest of us stayed on.
“Our early efforts were somewhat clumsy but we were soon receiving useful intelligence. At that time we didn’t call the information we received intelligence but much of that initial communication urged our group to adopt the ways and vocabulary of espionage, spies, and that sort of thing. It was clear that if we were to cooperate with the agency then we would be involved in something clandestine.
“In fact, there was a direct insistence that we learn to operate in secret. Being ignorant of these topics, we availed ourselves of any materials that we could find. The agency also provided some direct intelligence, thus providing the experience of real-world encounters as I’m sure you’ve all familiar with by now.
“Reportedly on the day of Rebekah’s birth, one of our inner circle contacted the agency and received the reply GREETINGS AGENTS. They never revealed what they had asked but the truth is that by then we were all quite confident in our training, as it were, so the designation stuck.”
“Of course,” cuts in Cornelius, “vis zese revelations vee had hoped zat Rebekah vould be gifted vis some sort of enhanced abilities. Alas, over time her psychic skills proved qvite average. Academically und assletically alzo. But vee did notice her hypnotic ability early on, ja? Vis animals und her peers und so. So vee researched ze topic soroughly und consulted vis a number of professionals.”
“I don’t remember that,” notes Rebekah with a furrowed brow.
“You weren’t there, dear,” explains her mother. “We didn’t want to unduly influence you so our associates analyzed recordings of your demonstrations. Surely you remember us taking those.”
Rebekah squints, pulls her head back, and responds, “I do but I didn’t know this was why.”
“All I can tell you,” concludes Arti, “is that we did what we thought was best, out of love. That, and you were … are … truly exceptional.”
At this Rebekah presses her lips tightly together, then slowly relaxes the corners of her mouth into a gentle smile.
“Hey Dmitri,” says Dominic suddenly, tossing his head toward the reclined man, “what’s going on? You look worried.”
Everyone looks at the larger man whose hands are clasped in front of his mouth, both index fingers extended over his mustache. Deep lines are etched into his forehead, a look of concern holding his face in place.
As Brock leans in to deliver a follow-up question, he’s immediately stopped by Dmitri’s upraised finger, delivered at lightning speed at the end of an extended arm. Without any visible changes to his demeanour, Section B’s technical lead remains resolutely receptive to something that no one else seems to be aware of.
After a few moments he finally breaks the silence. “Something’s off,” he states coldly. “Something doesn’t sound right.”
Everyone in the room remains still as Dmitri stands up and slowly tilts his head from side to side. “It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere…”
Pausing with his head turned toward the upper-level stairs, his body slowly pivots until it’s lined it up with his gaze. He glides to the foot of the staircase and stands there for a few moments, face turned upward, then confirms, “It’s definitely coming from up there.”
Attempting to break through Dmitri’s attention for a second time Brock asks, “Can we give you a hand? Help you look for … it?”
“Nah,” responds Dmitri, still rigidly focused, “you guys are too deaf and too loud. Just try to keep it down down here.”
With that he moves silently upward and into the darkness of the second floor.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” jokes Elvis with an expectant look.
Mirabelle responds with unsmiling, closed-eye acknowledgment. Cornelius exhales a chuckle. Rebekah rolls her eyes.
It takes Brock a few seconds to register the jest but with the moment for a response quickly fleeting, he decides it’s best to just turn his attention to Rebekah’s parents. “So what exactly is the agency, some sort of ghost or something?” he inquires, glancing between Arti and Cornelius.
“Not qvite,” responds Cornelius. “Haff you ever hurd of a Tulpa, or perhaps an Egregore?”
Brock juts out his lower lip as he searches his memory. “Never,” he says eventually.
“It iz a sot projection,” explains Cornelius. “In Tibet it iz said zat if an experienced Buddhist monk concentrates long und hard enough he can produce a living being, anozer human, from mere sot alone. An Egregore is somesing similar but it iz created by groups. Zo, perhaps Egregore is more correct.”
“I think that for our purposes this definition is sufficient,” expounds Arti. “However, while our own entity appears to have a broad capacity to provide accurate intelligence, it also seems to have little ability to produce direct physical effects. A planchette seeming to move on its own, while amazing and even alarming, is a simple and negligible feat for any of us to produce with just our own fingers.”
“Agents provide agency for ze agency, ja?” adds Cornelius. “Und in return vee get invaluable intelligence. Sometimes even some small assistance.”
“Phantom dead drops,” interjects Rebekah, temporarily nudging Brock’s memory back to their transatlantic voyage and subsequent encounter with the hallucinogenic mushrooms.
“Ja, exactly,” acknowledges her father. “It is a complementary relationship. Vee are a little in its vurld, it iz a little on ours.”
Brock’s expression is one of contorted confusion as he faces Cornelius. “I thought that you didn’t know that the agency existed until you read the book, or had the séances, or whatever, but Rebekah told us you created it.”
“Founded it,’ Rebekah corrects him.
“Created, founded … either way, how is that possible?” he presses.
“We are not entirely certain whether the chicken or the egg came first, so to speak,” explains Arti, “but as you have experienced for yourself, the agency appears to operate beyond space and time. It could be that it contacted us in the past in order to ensure that, through our efforts, we created it in the future. It’s an unusual concept and perhaps we are giving ourselves far too much credit but the fact remains that our circle took those necessary first steps.”
Brock pulls his head back and raises an eyebrow at the suggestions.
“At the very least we do know that we are not the only ones to achieve such a contact. Some years after our initial communications a group of amateur enthusiasts recreated our early experiments. Their aims were different but they were nevertheless able to intentionally produce a fictional entity, what they called a ghost, with which they likewise communicated.
“Based on their results it was proposed that such phenomena may be the product of the participants’ own innate abilities or subconscious minds. At our serendipitous book’s suggestion we have been considering this possibility for some time. It remains at the heart of the dispute behind the agency’s nature.”
“Perhaps ozers have made more progress in siz area,” remarks Cornelius in closing.
Brock sits and blinks for a few moments before finally inquiring, “So since you can’t be sure, how can you trust that the agency isn’t manipulating you for some ulterior purpose?”
“One can never be fully certain,” notes Arti. “Life comes with no guarantees, especially not in the realm within which we operate. We must, each of us, rely on our own discernment, which itself relies on accumulated experience. Unless you know of some other way?”
With a brief and polite head shake, Brock ends his line of questioning.
Just at that moment a loud knock sounds at the kitchen door.
Wasting no time, Cornelius hoists himself up and makes his way to the adjoining room. A few clicks follow as the front door is unlocked and flung open with an audible whoosh accompanied by a delighted, “Aah!”
The door is abruptly slammed shut and Cornelius ushers the newcomer into the company of the silently waiting room.
She’s not tall but not short, about a foot taller than Cornelius, Arti, or Rebekah. She stands casually, the bottoms of her legs sheathed in motorcycle boots held fast with thick silver clasps, worn and fading black jeans above them. A dark red t-shirt peeks out from inside a leather motorcycle jacket, its geometric gray and black panels separating along its open zipper as she leans on the door frame. Over her shoulder, slung confidently by its straps, is a matte black helmet.
A shock of short platinum hair is swept to one side across the top of her head. Dark, assertive eyebrows and well-proportioned hazel eyes sit placidly on top of a gently sloped nose that terminates in an attractive smile. Her austerely boyish look is offset by alluring eye make-up, red lips, and small hoop earrings.
“Hey,” she says, greeting eyes darting from agent to agent, individually tossing her head at each member of Section B in acknowledgment.
She receives quiet, mumbled responses in return.
Her eyes quickly lock on to The Handler. “You must be Rebekah,” she states bluntly in a voice that could be suited to radio or voice-over work.
With a stern look, Rebekah responds, “I must be. And you must be Rose.”
“You got it,” responds the newcomer brazenly. She shifts her attention to Elvis and comments, “But I don’t think I know everyone else here.”
Elvis responds with a simple recitation of his name.
With a nod, Rose moves on to Dominic and Brock. “Hang on …” she pauses for a moment, “you guys look familiar. Yeah, I remember now … Shindan? Bangkok?”
Both men look uncomfortably uncertain.
“Receptionist,” she explains. “I ran into you right as I was getting the fuck out of there. C’mon, you must remember…”
Brock and Dominic continue to look at each other, perplexed.
“Yellow dress?” she clarifies. “No? Maybe it was the glasses. Okay, I get it, you guys were both a little pie-eyed. You’ll have to explain that to me some time but, okay, so I handed you the details of Shindan’s getaway, yeah? My hair was different then.”
Suddenly realizing who she is, Brock blurts out, “Oh yeah! You told us where Shindan was shipping their records. The Post-it with the train info but … didn’t you say your name was Hope?”
“An alias, yeah,” she confirms with a bright smile.
With Dominic still looking confused, Brock asks, “But why were you there? Where did you get that information? Why did you give it us?”
“I was there,” she expounds, “to find out what happened to the contract between Rebekah’s folks and the people they hired to watch her. I’m assuming you’ve been told the story about what happened?”
Most of Section B nod affirmatively.
“Okay, so then you know why I tracked Shindan to Thailand. Getting into the organization was easy and getting at the intel was even easier. Seriously, the place was ridiculous. I was given full access to all of their systems upfront, didn’t have to hack or break into anything. They fucking handed me their passwords and office keys,” she observes with a smile.
“So I knew what was going on there. Even if most of the employees were shady, for Cheng and his little minions to ditch them like that is a total dick move. Besides, you guys looked like you needed some help and I guess I felt a little sorry for you. The clumsy way you’d been scoping the place,” she says pointedly at Dominic, “you and another guy … plumper … mustache.”
At that moment, Dmitri returns from his investigation of the second floor and pauses to look at the newly arrived woman.
“Him!” exhorts Rose, pointing at Dmitri.
“What?!” he retorts with shock and confusion.
“Shindan,” she repeats. “Both of you” — she motions to Dominic — “just walked by me with those fake-ass IDs so many times. Never said anything. I don’t even think you even noticed me.”
Dmitri and Dominic look at each other with uncertainty.
“If I’d have given a damn,” continues Rose, “you would’ve been busted so fast.”
With some astonishment, the newly-returned man introduces himself. “Dmitri. Nice to meet you again, I guess.”
“‘sup?”, she responds. “Rose, a.k.a. Hope. Best fucking receptionist Shindan ever had.”
Even before finishing her sentence she turns her attention to Mirabelle. “Good thing I didn’t turn you guys in,” she notes, her tone becoming slow and mildly amorous.
Mirabelle replies with a gentle, possibly coy smile. “Mirabelle Saint-Juste,” she identifies herself.
“Wow … French,” acknowledges Rose in faux disbelief. “That is un-fucking-real. You are very attractive, did you know that?”
Without affect or hesitation Mirabelle, responds, “If you say so.”
Rose tilts her head playfully and affirms, “I do.”
Dmitri intercepts her focus with his outstretched hand. “Sorry to cut the introductions short but we have a problem here,” he notes, drawing the Section’s attention to his closed fist. He opens it to reveal a thick, coin-like object sitting in his palm.
“GPS tracking tag,” Rose says to Dmitri. “Cool. Who’re we tracking?”
“We’re not tracking anyone,” he responds. “We’re the ones being tracked.”
“Oh shit,” observes Rose.