The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

“
Caprice
?” asked Georgia.

“We were married after all,” said Mr. Li, “You remember.  You were at the ceremony.”

“This won’t mean anything to you, but I am sorry in my own way,” said Georgia.

“To trust you when you say
Caprice
isn’t running might be possible,” said Mr. Li, “You’re getting soft in your old age Standing.”

“Very soft,” said Georgia.

“Keig must be getting soft too,” said Mr. Li.

“Why do you say that?” asked Georgia.

“Otherwise, he would have called himself,” said Mr. Li.

“He can’t,” said Georgia.

“I know,” said Mr. Li, “He’s somewhere he doesn’t want to be, that’s why you’re calling.”

“You haven’t lost your touch Ray,” said Georgia.

“Where is he?” asked Mr. Li.

“Venezuela,” said Georgia.

“Underground?” asked Mr. Li.

“In prison,” said Georgia.

“Did the Chessmaster make a wrong move?” asked Mr. Li.

“That has yet to be determined,” said Georgia.

“What’s he into?” asked Mr. Li.

“We need to make our bed, Ray,” said Georgia.

“Who’s laying in it?” asked Mr. Li.

“I don’t know, neither does Mason,” said Georgia, “That’s why he’s in custody.  He’s buying us time.”

“You mean
us
as in you and yours or
us
as in you and me?” asked Mr. Li.

“Just you and I,” said Georgia, “Necessity makes for strange bedfellows.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of necessity,” said Mr. Li.

“There’s a mole somewhere, with access to files detailing the Agency’s spy assets in Venezuela.  Our Venezuelan operation is massive,” said Georgia, “The files have been slowly leaked to the Venezuelans. Mason found out.  He handed himself over to the Venezuelans to convene a meeting here at Langley.  We know the mole will be there.  I need to figure out who; that leaves you the fun part.”

Both knew what was coming.

“You have to go get Mason,” said Georgia.

“Chessmaster didn’t plan for an exit?” asked Mr. Li.

“You
are
his planned exit,” said Georgia.

Georgia didn’t say anymore.  She let time pass for thoughts and clouds to roll.

“Why should I help Mason Keig?” asked Mr. Li.

“You know why,” said Georgia.

Mr. Li drew in a breath and looked at the screen on the Spare Tire.  The screen showed ‘Link Inactive’.  Mr. Li rested his chin on the phone and thought.  He went over to the rusted chair with its ripe cotton and ripped cushions and sat down.  He thought some more.  His other cell phone sounded off another text message; it forced him out of the chair.  He walked over to his shoulder bag, left on a cheap bookshelf, and fished inside for his cell phone.  He found it in the left side pocket.  He turned it over in his right palm.  He went back to the rusted chair.  He opened the text message—another character sequence.  Mr. Li decoded the sequence and entered it into the Spare Tire.  Code entered, Mr. Li hit the call button to see ‘Access ID’. 

“Rainman,” he said without hesitation.  Within seconds the word ‘Verified’ flashed then left, as if to retrieve the images that followed.  The images that appeared on the Spare Tire were the same images that Georgia had opened on her desktop—Chessmaster.  There he was, looking at the camera, not smiling, begging.  He looked exhausted with a face Mr. Li hadn’t seen in over seven years.  Mr. Li scrolled down to see the closest angle.  He could see dark ditches under Chessmaster’s eyes, as if he was already held in check. He was worried. 

Mr. Li thought it might be worth saving him, just to ask what the last years had done to him.  A man as meticulous as Chessmaster would always be able to tow the line.  Mr. Li thought.  The pictures proved Mr. Li wrong.  Curiosity started stinging him.  The stinging made him want to know how wrong he might have been about the man, Chessmaster.  He wanted to know why Chessmaster’s life was in his hands.  Chessmaster was a strategy technician and technically, Mr. Li was the last person Chessmaster should trust.  But he was somewhere in South America, locked away, trusting.  Mr. Li wanted to know why.

Mr. Li sat in the rusted chair.  He rose from the chair, walked across a red-painted wood floor and entered a small and crowded bathroom.  He took off his watch and let it rest on a rectangular washing machine.  The mirror over the sink was a medicine cabinet using the mirror for a door.  Mr. Li paused in front of the mirror.  His face looked serious but passive.  Mr. Li opened the medicine cabinet and took out a suspicious looking 250 ml aerosol can.  The can was white with a silver cap.  There was no brand label, just a red-letter listing of chemical compounds and their volume percentage.  Mr. Li unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves to reveal his undershirt.  He then loosed his red tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons on his white collared-shirt.  He shook the aerosol can.  He took the silver cap off and sprayed his bare arms and hands with the aerosol spray—first the left arm, then the right.  The skin on his arms began to hiss, then crack, then flake.  Mr. Li sprayed his neck that hissed till it cracked, till it flaked.  Mr. Li dusted off his left arm.  He showed no sympathy for the pre-owned skin that flaked off his arm into the sink.  He dusted off his right arm, still no sympathy.  The leftovers of Mr. Li’s skinned arms revealed dark colored scales, wrapped around his arms like casts.  The tattoos covered both arms entirely up to the wrist.  His hands were clean palettes, except for the thumbs which were wrapped with smaller looking scales starting at the wrist.  The inked scales came to a feathered point on each thumb between knuckle and nail.  Mr. Li dusted the skin from his neck.  His lack of sympathy for the dead skin was due to the fact that it wasn’t his and it wasn’t skin—technology.  It was make-up, a bonding agent, developed to look like skin.  And it did.  Spray on, spray off, it was more sealant than make up.  It sealed his past by spraying it away.

Mr. Li’s neck had a similar tattooed scale pattern that made a hump around the nape of his neck and wound down around his jugular making a sharp drop inward toward his chest.  Mr. Li replaced the white aerosol can in the medicine cabinet.  Mr. Li closed the medicine cabinet door, but the face staring back in the mirror was not Mr. Li’s.  The same features were there but not the same expression.  This face looked like it was straining to look decent, like it had accepted a world more sinister than that of quiet-lived Mr. Li.  Mr. Li removed his collared-shirt and left the bathroom.  He crossed the red floor in five quick steps and opened a door made of composite wood that lead into his bedroom.  In his bedroom, he pulled off his undershirt, revealing what the spray-on makeup didn’t hide—monsters.  His entire torso was covered with a disturbing tattoo.  There were dragons, eight of them, all snaking around his body.  Two of them had tails that spiraled around his arms down to his thumb.  One had its body wrapped around his neck and came over his right shoulder.  Two crisscrossed each other in opposite directions around his back and snaked toward his chest under each armpit.  One crawled over the two crisscrossed and sloped over his left shoulder toward the center of his chest.  Two came up from below his waist, slithered around either side of his navel, crouching in the direction of his chest.  Tattooed in the center of his chest was a metallic orb soaking in its own flame.  All of the dragons seemed drawn to the orb as if it had power over them or could give them power over the others.  All had their eyes fixated on the orb and their right claw outstretched toward it.

Mr. Li lifted his mattress.  On the underside of the mattress, near where his head rested, was a modest group of small pink stitches, carefully chosen to match the mattress itself.  Mr. Li scraped his fingernail over the stitches enough to make the stitching give.  He dug his right index finger into the hole and removed a short key.  Mr. Li smeared all subtle objects from the bedside nightstand onto the floor.  He lifted the nightstand and carried it across the room to the sliding-door closet.  He put the nightstand down in front of the closet and slid open the door.  The closet was filled with rank and file clothing.  All his shirts were white or off-white.  His slacks were all black, grey or navy—no tans, no khakis.  Everything was a white shirt or a dark pant, nothing flashy, nothing wanting to attract.  Mr. Li stepped on top of the nightstand and punched through a wooden tile used as a ceiling board for the closet.  He reached beyond the wooden tile into a space in the wall and felt metal.  He used his hand to scoop enough of the metal to slide it toward the opening.  The metal box was close enough to the opening for Mr. Li to use both hands to grab the box and bring it down.  He stepped down from the nightstand taking the box with him.  He sat the box on the bed along with himself and used the key from the mattress on the lock. 

The contents of the box explained why it remained hidden and locked.  Like so much in Mr. Li’s life, he hid the things that were hard to explain—like his dragons.  They were a conversation piece.  The conversation would not happen though.  He saw to it.  Mr. Li was different.  He wasn’t the verbose one in the café corner who talked an octave above, subconsciously wanting an audience.  He was taciturn, except for his classes.  He had much worth telling. He just didn’t want to talk.  He had never wanted to talk, never except once.  The metal box did the talking for him.  In the box, were stacks.  Stacks of 100 Euro bills, 100 Dollar bills and 100 Renminbi bills were all standing at attention.  Under the banknotes, were credit cards, a keycard reader and business cards.  He could be a journalist, marketing executive, supplier, retail purchaser or an independent film producer.  There were passports:  American; British; French; Swiss and Singaporean.  Included were American, British and French military IDs and three finger rings.  The metal box ensured that Mr. Li played an extralegal game.  But what the box was missing was any sort of weapon—no firearm, no hidden dagger or fast explosive.  The box said Mr. Li’s job was to avoid confrontation, not engage in it.  Mr. Li matched fingers on his right hand with the three rings—one slid over his middle finger, index finger and thumb.  He turned his attention to the closet once again.  Sliding everything over to the right revealed a single black leather jacket, hanging on a hook not a hanger.  Mr. Li removed the jacket from its hook and pulled it out into open light.  The jacket was not new, it looked cleaned but not clean.  Mr. Li removed a fresh white shirt from its hanger and put it on neglecting to tuck it in.     

He slipped the leather jacket over the white shirt.  He took the contents of the metal box and put it in his shoulder bag.  He removed his teacher ID badge and his laptop.  He readied nothing else, no change of clothes.  He went to the far side of the bedroom toward the window and crouched down on one knee, reaching under the bed toward a black plastic box.  He slid the box toward him and took the lid off.  In the box, were several white aerosol cans both white and silver capped.  He grabbed three of the white-capped cans and one of the silver.  He put the cans in his shoulder bag.  He went to the bathroom again and opened the medicine cabinet.  He reached inside for a white-capped aerosol can.  Mr. Li used the can to spray himself on each hand just past the wrist and he sprayed around his neck.  Where the spray landed, his tattoo disappeared.  He palmed the white-capped can and added it to the collection in his shoulder bag.  He sent a text message to Sister Guo telling her he was too sick to teach the next day.  As for the other days, Sister Guo was an administrator; it was her job to deal with.  Mr. Li stepped out his apartment door and closed it gently as always.  The door locked automatically.  He looked at his watch showing 5:14 in the afternoon.  Mr. Li had memorized the train and bus schedules for all of Handan.  Every six months, he sat on his bed with the most recent schedules laid out and memorized.  He knew the last train leaving Handan for Beijing left at 6:23pm, putting him at Beijing West Station shortly before 10 o’clock at night.

He gently descended the steps in the stairwell and walked determined but not noticeably fast-paced.  He walked pass the kiosk, out of the alley, and onto the main street.  He flagged a maroon taxi and gave Handan Train Station as his fare.  The meter started at 6.50 RMB, so Mr. Li had 12.50 ready to exchange.  Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up to the edge of the plaza in front of Handan Train Station.  Making sure his destination was the only thing he said to the driver, Mr. Li handed the driver exact change and exited the car.  It was a forgettable fare.  The driver drove away.  Mr. Li walked straight toward the entrance of the train station.  The ticket counter was outside the station to the right of the entrance.  The vendor at the window said there was still standing room on the Z177 train to Beijing for 14 RMB.   Mr. Li would have to stand for over three hours; he could go for twice as long.  Standing in the queue, Mr. Li raised his cell phone to his ear and held a conversation with ‘Mr. Wang’, whom eavesdroppers would learn was a manager of some sort of company in Beijing.  Mr. Li joined the queue to enter the train station.  The entrance had a bag scanner manned by two uniformed officials—one male, one female.  Mr. Li put his shoulder bag down on the conveyor belt that sent it through the scanner.  His cell phone conversation with the abrasive Mr. Wang caused him to apologize in succession.  The two at the scanner felt a hint of pity for Mr. Li whose voice and words began to become increasingly submissive to the dominant Mr. Wang.  Mr. Li picked his shoulder bag as it came out of the scanner and walked away.  As soon as he was out of earshot of the uniformed officials, his conversation with Mr. Wang abruptly ended.  Mr. Li glanced up at a red-on-black electronic sign board to get his track assignment.  He joined the queue of people lined up to proceed onto the train platform.  After waiting five minutes in the queue, he handed his ticket to a woman clad in a navy suit jacket, her hair neat—done up.   She punched a single hole in his ticket and he moved to the right, pass her and through a turn style.  Down a flight of steps, a landing, and another flight of steps was the platform.  Mr. Li made his way to Track 4 to Car 22 of a dark green train.  A uniformed man, complete with officer’s hat, stood at the door of Car 22.  He took one look at Mr. Li’s ticket and let him board the train.  Mr. Li made his way to the back of the car pass a dozen rows of wooden seats.  There were already several people standing at the back of the train.  Mr. Li glanced at every face as he passed each row.  He could be sure that he knew no one on the train.  He found room against the wall, just behind the last row of wooden seats.  His mind began to ‘run the room’.  He had a subconscious habit. Mr. Li instinctively picked the pockets of everyone around and he did it with his senses.  He used his eyes to size up everyone.  He noticed:  clothing—expensive or cheap; fingernails—dirty or neat; hair—managed or not.  He would absorb any noticeable smells.  Perfumes were trying to impress.  Sweat could care less.  And, he eavesdropped.  He would fine tune accents, colloquialisms, grammar and language.  He could guess whether a person was educated or not and where they were from.  Based on the stress in a voice, he could usually tell if someone was telling the truth.  He was particularly interested in a middle-aged woman sitting in an adjacent wooden seat.  The woman shared the seat with an adolescent girl and they were having a conversation with personal touches.  They kept their voices low.  Mr. Li focused on them because, unlike everyone else on the train, they weren’t speaking Mandarin.  They were speaking
Minnanhua
—non-locals.  The train was in Hebei Province, bound for Beijing.  It was the North. Mandarin was spoken in the North. 
Minnanhua
was spoken in Zhejiang Province and other parts of the South.  It was also spoken around Shanghai.  Mr. Li had a hard time placing their accents.  He hadn’t spent much time in the South Mainland, making him unfamiliar with
Minnanhua
.  To make it more complicated, there was one other place
Minnanhua
was spoken, Taiwan.