Roman’s Story Continued: “The stunt with the trains”
I
Roman found a strange ally in his insomnia. He was putting in eighteen-hour days, training the first half and breaking the never-ending stack of codes the latter half. In the beginning the codes had not been hard, but now they were even easier, becoming like the nighttime word searches of a retiree. The phrases leaped out from the jumbled letters and sentences like the bright bulbs of a Christmas tree. If he finished fifty, there would be sixty waiting the following evening. Still the waves and sand outside his window were his only company.
Ninja schooled him in the art of war. After Roman had mastered the basics from his teacher’s one-on-one sessions, opponents were brought in. First one agent. Then two. The first week of live combat Roman lost every fight. Six months into the training Roman was defending six aggressors at a time, his opponents in full pads, Roman in only the clothes he’d put on that morning. There were no lessons on becoming one with the universe or getting in touch with one’s inner energy. Ninja reminded him frequently that this was not a dojo and that kung fu masters existed only in the movies. Ninja demonstrated how relatively easy it was to gouge a man’s eyes out or rip his ear off. Sometimes part of survival was killing, and Ninja showed Roman how relatively easy it was to snap a man’s neck.
Johnson took Roman to the twelfth door down from his room once a week.
It was a door Roman never wanted to enter. Paper silhouettes in the shooting gallery hung on their strings at fifty and one hundred yards. The Kimber sat on the shelf in front of him. The dulling over time that Johnson was so convinced would happen had not yet given Roman the courage to pick up the weapon or squeeze its trigger. Johnson did not press the issue.
After months of the weekly visits, Roman grew tired of just staring at the gun. He picked it up and emptied all twelve rounds into the heart and head of his paper attacker with pinpoint accuracy. He finished and set the gun back on the stand. That was the last time Johnson brought him to the gallery.
A year into the training, Johnson watched as Roman defeated the best of Ninja’s students from all over the country. In frustration, Ninja would sometimes make them all go against Roman at the same time. Roman was always left standing.
“How’s he progressing?” Johnson asked the instructor.
“The kid’s a sponge. He picks this stuff up like most people take to riding a bike or roller-skating. Some guys no matter how well you train them are just not good fighters. The only thing you can do for them is pray. Young Swivel is not one of those people. He might be the best I’ve ever had.”
“I thought I was the best you ever had?”
Ninja frowned without replying.
II
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Sometimes Johnson would be gone days at time. But when Sunday came Johnson made it a point of spending it with his young protégé. Together they would go to church, visit the bowling alley, see a movie, or catch a ball game.
Johnson taught Roman to drive, and not on your ordinary student driver courses.
Johnson referred to the lessons as evasive maneuvering. Flooring the car to speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour, power-braking at the drop of a dime, power-sliding one hundred and eighty degrees and spinning to face the opponent who in real life would be chasing you were all things that gave new meaning to the way a car handles. The days spent outside the barn seemed to recharge Roman, completely resting the complicated gray matter between his ears, and nourishing his soul with the much-needed blessings of every day life.
Almost a year to the day after Roman’s arrival at the barn, Johnson showed up not with a cartload of documents as usual, but with a single manila envelope in his hand and a stressed look on his face. Roman had never before seen the urgency in his eyes so apparent. Johnson made small talk while trying to conceal his concern.
“Still haven’t gotten bored with the view?” Johnson asked, looking out the windows at the same beach.
“I’ve never been to the ocean in person. I guess I can’t get enough.”
Johnson unwrapped the brown string holding the envelope closed. “This is a transcript from a video that one of our agents obtained yesterday. The man talking is Somane Kazar, a swingman for just about any terrorist group you can name. Although Kazar himself is uninterested in proving any fundamental points, he does work for the enemy from time to time, as long as they will match his price. He deals in weapons, recruitment, and most importantly information. I guess he’s what you’d call a terror pimp. He’s got huge drug operations, spanning from Syria to Colombia. He sets up funding for some terrorists groups in these areas by providing them with narcotics at wholesale prices. The CIA has reason to believe Kazar is setting up a big meeting between the local drug lords and some top-ranking terrorists from across the pond. They also believe that his words are coded, providing the date, time, and location of the meeting. We’ve had our best guys on this, not to mention the computers. They all say there is no visible code.
That’s where you come in.”
Roman turned the envelope upside down, emptying its contents. A two-page manuscript dropped into his hand. Roman’s eyes sped though the Arabic writing as he walked over to his desk.
“Take your time,” Johnson said. “This might be the toughest one you’ve ever had. It’s also probably the most important.”
Roman didn’t respond as he sat down at the desk, holding the papers as if they were the Dead Sea scrolls.
The sun had set on the projected paradise outside Roman’s window. Light from the moon and the stars hinted at the moving waves of the ocean. The solitary lamp bent over Roman’s desk illuminated the transcript. Roman wiped his hand over his face and pushed his fingers through his hair. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d read the document. The letters didn’t jump out at him or seem highlighted as before. There was no code. Roman was sure of it. He took a 114
drink of the water on the desk next to him, not out of thirst, but out of frustration.
He glanced at the flat-screen TV at the end of the room. Its glass was blank and black. He had only used it a handful of times. He looked again at the papers in front of him and again back at the screen. He picked up his phone and dialed Agent Johnson’s number.
The scratchy voice on the other end answered, “Johnson.”
“Do you have a copy of the actual videotape?” Roman asked.
“Yes. Why?” The voice wakening out of the depths of sleep.
“There’s no code in these manuscripts in Arabic, Spanish, or any other language. I need to see the video.”
“What time is it?”
“Two forty-five,” answered Roman.
“I’ll be there by four.”
III
Roman half-expected to see Johnson in his pajamas and slippers, but the Agent was groomed and dressed in a suit, as sharp as the day they met. He went over to Roman’s VCR and inserted the tape. Roman sat on his bed with the manuscript attached to a clipboard and a pencil in his hand.
“I’m not sure how this is going to help”, said Johnson. “The words on your pages match his spoken words exactly. It’s been checked and re-checked.”
“Just give me a second,” Roman said, his voice a thousand miles away as he concentrated on the screen.
On the video, Kazar sat at a wide desk, smiling as he talked about all the schools he had built with his money and about the future donations he would make. He wore a designer suit instead of the turban and robes Roman had expected. He spoke for only four minutes.
“Notice anything strange?” Roman asked.
“I’ve watched this thing about a thousand times. No, I haven’t noticed anything strange.” Johnson suddenly felt like he was back in a college lecture hall.
“Our friend Kazar seldom blinks. In fact his eyes only close four times.
His blinks are deliberate, always with both eyes. It’s so simple it’s genius. Play it back for me one more time,” Roman said as he readied his pencil.
Johnson rewound the tape and started it again. “I’m lost,” he Johnson said.
Kazar started to talk and Roman began to scratch with his pencil on the manuscript, his eyes jumping from the man’s blinks to the Arabic words on the paper. Johnson stood over Roman’s shoulder. Each time Kazar blinked Roman circled the corresponding word on the transcript. He looked the paper over as the taped ended.
The words circled on Roman’s paper were the numbers three, ten, seventy-four, and five. “All numbers,” Roman muttered to himself. Then he looked up.
“Do you know what you’re looking at?” Roman asked the agent.
“Yeah, four numbers that don’t mean a damn thing to me.”
“They should,” Roman began. “Because these numbers are your meeting place and your date.”
Johnson just looked at Roman.
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“You have a three and a ten close together on the page, and then a seventy-four and a five close together at the bottom.”
“Okay,” the agent said.
“What if it means “three-ten” as in March 10th? And what if it means
“seventy-four and five” as in the coordinates 74 and 5?”
“March 10th, that’s two days from now.” The agent sat down at Roman’s computer, bringing up the NN’s search engine. Johnson typed 5 degrees south and 74 degrees east into the search engine. “That’s somewhere in the ocean.”
“You said there were Colombians involved. Try 5 degrees south and 74
west instead. That should place the location somewhere in South America,”
Roman said.
Johnson typed in the coordinates. “It’s in the middle of a goddamn rain forest. No villages. No roads. Too inconvenient, even for our Colombian friends.”
“Try five degrees north then.”
Johnson typed again. This time a picture popped up along with a full description and directions. “Versailles, Colombia. An hour west of Bogotá. High elevation. It’s on some kind of plateau. Lots of fields. The description says the area is sparsely populated, mostly inhabited by horse ranchers.” Johnson looked up from the computer. “You’ve done real well Roman, but let’s celebrate after we catch the bastards. I’ve got to get the cavalry going.”
Johnson rose from his seat and pressed several numbers on his phone. “
Yeah, it’s me. Roman figured it out. Do you have something to take this down with?”
IV
Days passed without word from Agent Johnson. Even though Roman was confident in his findings, it would have been nice to hear the results of the operation. Johnson wouldn’t be on the front lines, by any means. Neither would any American soldier, ghost or no: Colombian mercenaries under United States control would carry it out. Someone who likely had a grievance with the local drug lord in their backyard. The NN would want to take the terrorists alive, a daunting task for a group of mercenaries that was either in it just for the pay or had vengeance on their minds. Ironic was the fact that drug dealers weren’t the most skilled at violence anymore.
Roman ordered as many books as he could through his computer. Most times they brought five or six a week, a number that Roman could have finished in the first day. He slowed his supersonic eye down to a slow drag and still there weren’t enough books to occupy his mind. The worst thing that could happen to that mind was for it to lie empty and unfilled. He tried reading the books over again, but it wasn’t the same. He stared for hours on end at the ceiling and at his beach hologram. His mind ran at full speed whether it was occupied or not, yet into the vacuum crept images he wanted to forget. Images like Ed’s belt full tilt or the shotgun blowing off the backside of his father’s head. Roman dealt with the boredom, always did, but the voices, no matter how much he begged them to be silent, only became louder.
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Tired of it, he grabbed the remote and flipped on the television that was more expensive than a used car. Any other teen would have been in heaven with all that technology at their fingertips, the freedom to sleep as much as they wanted, and no school to get up for. To Roman it was all just some synthetic excuse for a drug, manufactured in a factory, marketed by subliminals—a crude imitation of the lives and adventures that lived first on the written page and then in his mind.
Before Roman could think about the madness and repetition of the infinite number of twenty-four hour news channels, his eyes focused on an image on the screen. A helicopter view of a small village in flames. The caption in white letters beneath it read “near Versailles, Colombia”. Roman turned the volume up, the woman reporter’s voice dispersing through every speaker in his beach house.
“You’re looking at a small village, just outside Bogotá, Colombia. The location of an apparent attack on a meeting between wealthy drug lord Carlos Vega and a group of high-ranking officers from the terrorist group Nuram. Currently no survivors have been found. The attack was made by the local ranching community. An enormous amount of firepower was used, and it is still unclear who struck first. The Colombian government is denying all participation in the attack. Although many of the weapons lying on the ground were clearly property of the United States, the State Department denies any involvement, commenting that the war on terror is a joint effort with not only the countries of the world, but also its citizens. The White House released a similar statement commenting that it would have been nice to bring the terrorists in alive so they could face justice.
We’ll keep you up to date as this breaking story unfolds.”
Roman flipped to another news channel, which had a live camera on the ground. The reporter’s voice, which warned that the images about to be seen were of a violent nature and viewer discretion was advised, faded to silence in Roman’s ears as he concentrated on the images displayed on the screen in front of him. Not only was the village on fire but some of the outlying forest was as well. Several horses lay on the ground unmoving. Bodies soaked with blood scattered the fields. A young girl no older than twelve sat on the ground with her arms around an older man wearing a straw hat. She was holding his head up as she hugged him. Roman read the words on her lips. The girl’s mouth moved almost constantly, forming the word “Padre” over and over.
Roman pressed the remote, freezing the images of the faces on the screen before him. Roman stared at the all too familiar sight for several minutes. His stomach rumbled but before he could stand up, vomit splattered on his shoes. His legs felt numb as he walked to the bathroom. He retrieved a washcloth hanging next to the sink, not recognizing the pale face that looked back at him in the mirror. His eyes blurred with tears as he cleaned up the mess he’d made. He stood up and looked at the beach outside his windows. Roman walked to the hologram controls and turned the beach off.
The beatings from Ed had never produced as much as a salty teardrop from his eyes nor had the struggles in Ninja’s combat room. The last time Roman cried had been at his parents’ funeral. He had endured much, facing it head on and surviving. That night everything in his life hit him at once. Roman sobbed for the 117
two years that had passed. He sobbed for the twelve-year old girl in Versailles, Colombia.
V
Agent Johnson arrived back at the barn two days later. In his hands he carried two box seat tickets at Wrigley—a toast to Roman, a celebration for the man who’d made the success of the mission possible. Two of Numar’s leaders had been killed at the meeting. Sure it wasn’t as good as getting them for interrogation first, but security was built on the death of one enemy at a time. Whether it was done by lethal injection or bullet, the result was the same.
Johnson’s smile was wiped clean at the sight before him when he entered the room. Roman’s windows were blank and black. After a thorough search of the room, Johnson picked up the remote from Roman’s bed and turned on the TV. The image of the grieving girl was still frozen on the screen, an image Johnson had seen on the news as well
Johnson checked first in Ninja’s room. He went over the security tapes from the night before. Roman never came out of his room. He checked Roman’s room log. The last time the door was opened was when the mailroom opened it a day earlier. Johnson resisted the surge of panic that gripped the back of his neck.
Roman physically making an escape from the barn was impossible on his own.
The only way out was through the elevator and Roman’s eye would not open the doors because his iris print was not programmed in. Even if he did get the elevator open it wouldn’t go anywhere. The elevator was magnetically powered, so there were no cables to climb. None of the sensors in the ventilation shafts had been tripped and besides, the fan blades at the ends of the shafts were too close together for even Roman’s skinny butt to fit through. Johnson reviewed the tapes again.
Roman had vanished into thin air.
After a two-hour search of every square inch of Bravo including the parking garage, everyone at the barn gathered in one of the offices. Johnson paced back and forth. “Somebody say something. The man can’t just disappear. He’s not on tape. The security system checks out. Think, people. Think!”
The twenty or so people that filled the small room looked at each other with blank stares. Ninja spoke. “This is one of the most secure locations in the world.
The security system says he’s still here but we know he’s not. One of us has got to be wrong.”
Johnson shook his head.
“Well it’s not us,” Agent Shultz popped in from the back of the room.
“This place isn’t like trying to find someone in the MGM Grand. It’s relatively small. We’ve searched everywhere. The cameras even show he’s not here.
Maybe the cameras missed something.”
“Impossible,” Johnson replied.
“Impossible that they missed something, but what if we’re looking for the wrong person?” Ninja commented.
“Camouflage?” Johnson asked.
“Yes but not in the normal sense. He obviously didn’t steal our clothes.
That wouldn’t have helped him get past the iris scan anyway,” Ninja said.
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“I think we’re on the right track though,” Shultz stated.
Johnson’s pacing came to a halt. “Are we missing somebody in here?”
Ninja looked around the room and then at Johnson. Their eyes met and confirmed what they had each figured out.
“We’re missing Pinkston. George Pinkston,” Ninja said.
“It’s his day off,” another agent commented.
Agent Johnson closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh of frustration. His words came even slower. “Unbelievable. The kid really is a genius.”
VI
George Pinkston wasn’t an agent like his other colleagues. He had retired thirteen years before from the post office. When the NN saw his impeccable record as a post master and his spotless record as a citizen, they tracked him down and offered him a job working a couple hours a day in Bravo’s mail room. Sure there were things George had to learn, like scanning for bombs and biological weapons, but the job was easy as a pie he told his family. The only incoming mail they ever received was from other NN bases. It was the only outfit in the world that never received junk mail. It was hard to solicit a place that never even existed. Bravo had no mailing address, so George’s main job was to drive everyday to the post office, check the unmarked PO Box the NN used, and mail the few items that were being sent out. George knew better than to ask any questions and went about his work like a hobby enthusiast goes about collecting. It was just something to get him out of his apartment and out in the real world, something to knock the stink off him he often said. The agents liked him. He was the one guy they could talk to about things other than their work. He was their one link to the real world.
So when they called him in on his day off, George was a little uneasy, fearing the worst. Had he sent mail to the wrong place? Had he forgotten or missed something at the post office? Heavens, he hoped not. How bad would it look for a former postmaster to misplace a parcel of mail?
Every agent on duty in Bravo was in the room when he arrived. And although he never knew exactly what those agents did all day, he felt that all of them being gathered together in the same room with him in the middle was not a good thing. He was instantly transported back in time to his school days. To the only time he’d had to visit the principal’s office—for kissing Penelope in the coatroom—four days into his first grade year. A few swats on the fanny sounded pretty good right about now.
Johnson was the only agent standing. He looked at George with his arms crossed, much like the principal had on that long-ago fall day. George looked around the room at the people he considered friends. None of them were smiling though. He could feel the ends of his fingers twitching.
“Just relax George. We only want to talk to you for a minute or two,”
Johnson said unfolding his arms.
“Am I in trouble? I’m truly sorry if I lost somebody’s mail. I’ve never done anything that stupid in my entire life,” George said, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room.
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“You’re not in trouble, George, and you haven’t misplaced anything.
You’re a very good mail guy. Too good maybe.”
“Too good?”
“You know who Roman is right?”
“Yes, I talk to him several times a week. He’s a very nice young lad.”
“Did he mail anything in the last couple of days?”
“Why yes he did. The only reason I remember is that the box he wanted mailed was so heavy. I had to use a courier service because the box was too big for U.S. mail.”
“What was in the box?”
“Several other smaller boxes. He told me the night before he wanted to send all of his baseball cards home and that if he was down at Ninja’s he would leave the address on his desk.”
“And?”
“When I got there the next morning Roman was gone but the box was there, already packed. I picked up a couple of the littler boxes inside the big box and they were heavy, filled with baseball cards just as the lad had said. He left the address on his desk too. I had to tape the big box shut at the top. No big deal, I just figured he didn’t have any tape. Like I said before, I had to get the dolly because of the weight of the box. Did I do something wrong?”
“No George, not on purpose. You were just doing what we told you to do.
The only problem is that when you sent that box off, you also sent Roman.”
If George had been in a cartoon a giant light bulb would have appeared over his head. Instead he scratched the whiskers on the end of his chin. “I never thought to look for somebody trying to mail themselves. Never thought to look under the small boxes either. Hell I even scanned it, but only for the usual bomb residue or biological hazard. Our equipment isn’t designed to look for humans.
Sorry.”
Johnson ignored the apology, focusing his attention on the other agents.
“We’ve got to find him.”
Agent Shultz spoke, ”Where do you think he mailed himself to?”
“I’ve got my log right here,” George began. “Let’s see here...”
“It’s irrelevant where he mailed himself,” Johnson interrupted. “He would’ve gotten out of the box the first chance he had.”
“The weight of the box was just as heavy when I took it to the courier service,” George added.
“You think he might have tried to go back home?” Ninja asked.
“His home life was shit. But he might try to contact his foster mother.”
Johnson looked at the ceiling as if the answer might be written on it. “If I were Roman where would I go? Where would I go?”
“What about the money?” Shultz asked.
Without responding Johnson flipped open his cell and began pressing numbers. The phone picked up, but there was no voice on the other end. “This is Agent Johnson. Access code five nine eight six three eight nine five tango three.”
“How can I help you, Agent Johnson?” the female voice replied.
“I need a freeze put on a back account.”
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“City, state, and bank name?”
“Chicago, Illinois. First Bank of Chicago.”
Johnson heard the keystrokes through his phone.
“Account holder’s name?”
“Last name Swivel, S, W, I, V, E, L. First name Roman.”
“One moment please,” the voice said, accompanied by a flurry of more keystrokes.
“I’m sorry Agent Johnson. That account was closed earlier today by cashier’s check.”
“You can’t freeze the transfer when the check is cashed?”
“I’m sorry. The bank’s computer system shows the account balance as zero. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Shit,” Johnson said still thinking. “Can you tell me who the check was written to?”
“One moment.” More key strokes. “The check was written to a Gale Pentoch in the amount of one million six hundred thousand fifty dollars and forty cents. Can I help with anything else?”
“No. Thanks.” Johnson shut the phone.
VII
Gale Pentoch exited the shower, grabbing her olive-green robe off the hook next to the mirror. She wrapped her long brown hair in a matching towel; drops of water fell on the floor as she performed the task. Gale grabbed her make-up bag out of the cabinet above the sink and felt the cold air rush in as she opened the bathroom door. Ed lay passed out on the couch, already through his first bottle at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.
When they’d first been married, Gale did her makeup and hair in the bathroom. Now she preferred the bedroom. The mirror was bigger and there was more room to maneuver. She took her robe off and looked into it. Her body was still the same shape it had been when she went to Prom. The beatings had started probably two years into their marriage. Was it the beatings or was it the drinking?
There had been so many occasions of both through the years, it was hard to remember which was first. Never, as a little girl using her mother’s lipstick and fooling with her blush, did she think she would have to use the makeup for more than beauty purposes. Now it was for camouflage. She had mastered the art. Not in several years had she heard anyone ask what the bruises were on her face. The tears that used to fall at first had long since dried. The purple and green marks on her cheeks, arms, and stomach failed to bring any emotion as they were reflected back at her now. The bruises on her stomach used to bother her the most, but now they were just part of the landscape on the path of life. The large mirror was attached to the top of her wide dresser. The two-piece set her grandmother had given her when she was married did a great job of exposing every injury, and likewise aided her in covering them. She’d always had an exquisite sense of fashion. Spending a few extra minutes getting ready seemed like a fair trade for being able to wear the clothes she liked.
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The ritual was completed in the time it took most women just to do their hair. Gale gave herself one final look over, twirling around a bit while keeping her head toward the mirror. The movement of the air lifted the bottom of her d