The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (45 page)

“Hey Petey,” said Mason.  Petey was fat.

“Hey Mace,” said Petey going to his left toward a stack of boxes.  Petey grabbed a box as big as his belly, bringing it to the counter.  Mason signed a perforated pink label on the box and Petey ripped the label off.  A camera in the corner caught the transaction.

“Here,” said Mason to Xiaoyu, “It’s for you.”  Xiaoyu looked at Mason before going to the counter to grab the box.  The box was lighter than it looked. 

“Alright Petey,” said Mason leading Xiaoyu back to the hallway.  Xiaoyu carried the box like it was fragile, even though he didn’t know what was in it.  Inside was a gift and he hadn’t received many.  Xiaoyu followed Mason to a small room that was once a dark room or a closet.  A single fluorescent light panel removed any darkness.  A notebook computer familiar to Mason lay on a circular glass stand.  There was one chair in the room.  Mason sat down.  Xiaoyu stood.

“You can put the box down,” said Mason, “This room is supposed to be sound-proof like every other but we’re going to whisper because I don’t trust any of these bastards.  Here.”  Mason handed Xiaoyu a pair of scissors and tipped his head toward the box.  Xiaoyu opened the box to see it had been neatly filled with aerosol cans, four rows down and across.  Half the cans had white caps.  The others were silver-topped.   

“Grab one of the white ones,” said Mason, “Spray it on your arm.”  The spray was as cold as it was wet but warmed and dried fast.  Seconds passed and Xiaoyu saw a clouded out piece of flesh where the tail of a dragon had been.  Xiaoyu wasn’t used to amusement, but even he was amused.

“It’s thermophilic,” said Mason, “The spray.  It’s attracted to the heat of your skin.  It doesn’t stick to the hair on your body it clings directly to the skin then matches color.  To the naked eye it’s as good as real skin.  They even make one to change your skin color.  You can’t wear it for too much longer than a day; it starts to become toxic.  You’ll have to find time to take it off everyday.  It’s waterproof so you’ll have to use the silver topped cans.  That’s an anti-caking agent made specifically to remove this from your skin.  If for any reason you can’t get to a silver can in time, try some sort of acid like vinegar or even strong coffee or tea would do something.  It won’t work well but it’ll work.  Do you have anything you want to ask me?”  The room was tight and filled with a growing respect—unwanted, like mold on cheese. 

“How long have I been here?” was all Xiaoyu could think to ask.

“Over sixteen months,” said Mason, “To be honest most guys take longer than you did.  You were just more adaptable.  Your mind found space for whatever we needed to treat it with.  You were quick.”  Xiaoyu looked down at the floor with thoughts that ebbed and flowed.  The sixteen months bothered him.  He was bothered because the time was long and bothered that he didn’t remember it.  His thoughts quickly changed when he remembered what the cage taught him about time.  A fight always seemed long but only one fight had lasted more than ten minutes—the last one.  Time was big, a body of water.  Months and minutes were droplets separated only by his mind.  His bother washed out to sea. 

“Wha-what now?” asked Xiaoyu over the sound of Mason’s computer starting up.  Mason held out one finger for Xiaoyu to wait.  He typed in a series of passwords with uncanny efficiency, no backspaces, no mistakes.  He turned the screen of his computer in Xiaoyu’s direction.  A headshot of a man in his late 50’s created the illusion of a third person in the two-person room.  The man’s head was bald, crowned with age spots.  His skin was an unhealthy red, seasoned by years of sun.  His smile unveiled his coffee-stained teeth but his blue eyes were friendly.  His nose wasn’t. 

“Most days our enemy is unknown information or someone who has it.  In this case, our enemy is some burger stand somewhere.  This guy was a Senior Director of non-government group operations named Chris Mitchum.  He put agents in play.  Basically he handled people who were undercover inside mercenary or terrorist groups—anarchist organizations, gunrunners, whole underground networks.  Problem is he had a massive heart attack a month before we brought you here.  He didn’t pull through.  He had a buried agent in a group of munitions brokers in Bosnia Herzegovina.  These guys are flagless.  They trade with anyone; they don’t care what side of what conflict you’re on.  They’re either manufacturing or buying explosives as well as weapons, which are being sold to groups that we know about, some we don’t.  Mitchum had a spy in their group, who knew where they supply themselves and who they deal with.  Mitchum was like me, a cynic.  Actually, I’m a cynic.  He was a royal asshole.  He kept all his files and emails encrypted.  We’re still trying to decode them all.  And he was about as mistrusting as I am.  He never told anyone who his man on the inside was.  We can’t even be sure it was a man.  We can’t find any files on his computer with details about the identity of his agent and we’re not holding out hope for the remaining files.  His secretary is in the dark as much as we are, but he was able to confirm Mitchum’s agent’s label was
Valgani.  We found two files with word Valgani and they were ‘scared reports’.  Short reports with trivial information because the sender is spooked about getting caught on the other side of the transmission.  Or else they were in a kind of code that Mitchum was using with Valgani.  One specific group was mentioned in the report, a company called
Sejad Mehmedovic AEC
,
AG
.  AEC is for architecture, engineering and construction.  It’s a construction company involved in the postwar reconstruction of Sarajevo.  They have construction projects mainly in the Novo Sarajevo section of the city.  It’s an Austrian corporation though.  The set up of this company is spooky enough.  The supervisory board is Austrian but the management board is Bosnian.  The shareholders of the corporation are limited liability corporations.  They do no business in Austria they just have an office there.  All work is done in Bosnia Herzegovina.”  Mason took a break from speaking to see if Xiaoyu was listening.

“It’s honestly a decent setup if they’re running guns.  The corporate structure is so profligate it’s hard to find all players.  Even if you question someone about involvement they can always say they were in a limited capacity and didn’t know what was going on at the other end.  That might actually be the case.  There’s a cross-section between legit and otherwise.  Most black businesses have a legitimate public face.  A lot of times suppliers, warehouses even bankers don’t ask so many questions.  They need business and if you pay, they don’t really want to know what the background is.  With a construction company you’re dealing with a lot of equipment, supplies, electronics.  You could be making bombs or installing energy-efficient air conditioning.  Most engineers would say you have enough materials to do either.  The world’s chaotic.  They say the world’s going to hell; we say it’s always been going to hell.  We
need
it to be going to hell.  Doing what we do, do we care about the world going to hell?  We only care about the world ending because then we’d be out of a job.”

• • •

             
Air France
didn’t fly to Guam but
Air France
flew to Kuala Lumpur.  A mid day Paris-direct route was available six days a week.  An Airbus A340-300 could seat 290 passengers.  Two men boarded flight AF341 bound for Paris with the appearance of heading to a funeral.  One was well-organized that earned him the label Chessmaster.  The other was from nowhere with a checkered past.  The noise on the plane had to be heard.  It couldn’t be felt over the turbulence.  Mason had booked seats near the rear, two rows in front of the kitchen—statistically the best place to survive a crash.  Xiaoyu noticed Mason.  He was in the aisle seat across from Xiaoyu.  Mason looked unnaturally uncomfortable.  The lavatory was five steps away and Mason didn’t make a move.  He sat in his seat with at least one hand gripping an armrest.  Each patch of strong turbulence saw him take a bite out of the Cape Cod sitting on his tray table.  Mason was jumpy but dry; his Cape Cod sat still and did the perspiring for him.  His fingertips got wet every time he gripped the plastic cup, drying them on his pants leg.  Xiaoyu noticed and thought it odd for a man as well-groomed and meticulous as Mason.  Mason’s entire character had faded away.  The man he met in the interrogation room in Hong Kong—the one holding all the cards—was missing.  Perhaps he was still in the interrogation room.  Xiaoyu studied Mason out of the corner of his eye and didn’t understand what he saw.  Mason looked and dressed like the ready man who held a gun to his head, whose eyes explained his intentions.  Xiaoyu studied him and studied him, but observing him from across the aisle out of the corner of his eye meant, he could think straight more than he could see straight.  Understanding came to him in full force.  Mason wasn’t afraid of flying at least not entirely.  Xiaoyu had never flown before but adapted.  Mason would have adapted long before.  It wasn’t the elevation; it was the lack of control.  Mason couldn’t stand not being in control.  For the duration of the flight all decisions were made by someone else. 

        His ears perked up during the flight’s periodic updates.  When the plane touched the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle Airport a few minutes ahead of schedule, Chessmaster came back.  He required no more updates.  Mason left the plane not in true form but original form.  Chessmaster had no true form.  Who he was, depended on whom he played against.  The way he walked suggested he was playing against the clock.  Neither man had any checked baggage but a pre-booked rental car was available. 
No pick up
. 
No chauffeur
. 
No curbside service
.  Their rental car was blue—economy class.  They picked up the keys from the parking attendant.  Both wore sunglasses, distorting their appearance.  Mason spoke in one or two word answers, not enough to place an accent.  They were friends, colleagues, lovers, the lot but not government.  Everything was done to blend in not stand out, all in average amounts. 
The steps they took
. 
The way they looked
. 
The money they spent
.

• • •

The engine started with the humble hum of four cylinders.  When the car livened up the clock showed 3:17pm.  It was a Thursday in early September 2002.  Paris traffic had a way with Thursdays.  It took forty-two minutes to get from the airport to Boulevard Ornano. 
Galerie L’Esi
was an art gallery on Ornano wedged between a package service and a femme boutique.  It was classic and modern, stoic and trendy, a modern classic.  It showcased works of early modernism before everything was art.  The pieces were thoughtful but not thought-provoking.  Most of the artists were foreign and not local to Paris, giving the gallery a premium price range.  Many artists had several pieces on display in the one-room showroom and the gallery had power to negotiate prices for all works on its floor.  Marti Laine—a Paris native—was the curator.  She was chic with frameless glasses; her hair was too-good-to-be-true auburn.  She wore a black pantsuit with no blouse and open-toe high-heel shoes.  The shoes brought her a little above eye level with Mason Keig.  She shook his hand once and extended her hand to Xiaoyu.  Xiaoyu copied her demeanor and shook her hand with one motion. 

“Marti,” she said to Xiaoyu.

“Reagan,” said Xiaoyu.  He used his new name without hesitation but wondered why he didn’t hesitate. Then he remembered the answer, ASF.

“So nice to see you again Mr. Mason,” said Marti.

“And you Marti,” said Mason.

“The piece you inquired about I had set aside for you,” said Marti, “It is in our store room.  Shall I escort you?”

“Please,” said Mason.

Marti proceeded toward the back staircase with Mason and Xiaoyu behind.  The second floor of the gallery was locked, forcing Marti to use a key from a cord that hung around her neck under her suit jacket.  There was nothing suspicious about a locked door in an art gallery nor was there anything suspicious about the second floor with typical art supplies.  The locked door leading to the third floor was suspicious.  Another locked door made the third floor twice as secure as the second floor, making the merchandise in the showroom much less valuable than the merchandise on the third floor.  The hallway on the third floor looked much like the hallway on the second floor.  Same white paint.  Same wood trim.  One thing was different.  The hallway on the third floor was noticeably narrower.  The walls were thicker.  Marti pointed to a doorway at the end of the hallway on the right.

“She’s there waiting,” said Marti.

“Thank you,” said Mason.  Marti walked back toward the door to the stairway and let the door close behind her.  Mason knocked twice on the door Marti pointed out.

“Chessmaster,” said Mason.  Mason’s codename was followed by an electronic buzz sound that meant the door was unlocked.  Mason pushed through the door while Xiaoyu got the feeling to wait.  Mason held the door noticing the shadow behind him wasn’t moving. 

“It’s alright,” came a husky voice, “He’s still catching on.” Xiaoyu took a tentative step forward then another, putting him in the doorway of the room.  Mason stood in the room next to a woman seated at an antique circular wood table.

“His instincts are kicking in,” said the woman through smoked vocal chords, “He knows this place isn’t what it seems.  Come on in Reagan, my bark is as bad as my bite but I’m not goin’ to bite.  Not today.  I save that for the weekend.”  Xiaoyu stepped in the room to see a salt-and-pepper-haired woman with almost orange eyes.  Her full figure was accentuated by a small green upholstered chair.  She played at Marie Antoinette as she sipped espresso.  Unlike Marie Antoinette she had survived into her fifties.