Sander's Courage Read online

  of being an expert in the world of Parkour.

  And hell, most people wouldn't even know that

  what he wants to do even exists. Is there such a thing as a

  Parkour professional? Parkour? What the hell is Parkour?

  He'd make a better living as a birthday party clown for six-

  year-olds, he thought.

  ASK ANY ALCOHOLIC or cancer patient—vomiting is

  not fun. But like all unpleasant things, if it occurs often

  enough, one gets used to it. Torben was having another

  bad day. He was tiring of eating sensible meals, or even

  drinking a small bottle of water, only to have the

  immediate urge to regurgitate it. And the episodes were

  happening more and more frequently. Almost daily by

  now.

  He had to eat, and he had to keep it down. His

  vitamins could only do so much, and even they wouldn't

  work if there was no food to bond them to. He was in a

  right mess. And while he knew the blame was all his, he

  was tiring of this constant negative view of himself.

  It's funny, he thought, that the place he would

  begin to feel better about himself—and even feel welcome

  at—was at Sander's house. How could he really be

  forgiven? And even if Sander truly had, how could the

  little boy feel anything but abject hatred towards him?

  Another wave struck him and he barely made it to

  the toilet. He was happy to be home alone, where his

  benefactors wouldn't have to see or hear any of this. What

  an ignorant fuck I've been, he thought. I could have had what

  that American kid has. I could have been loved unconditionally,

  and I wouldn't have been given The Plague. I'd have in-laws

  who cared for me. And in another world, he would have

  formed a relationship with the kid brother, like that Johnnie

  guy had.

  He'd have been somebody's hero. Someone would

  have looked up to him. But that's not how it went, he

  knew, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

  "ACH! I SHALL HAVE KNOWN that it was a trick,

  Pokey!" Jannik exclaimed, as Sander parked his car outside

  of the psychologist's office.

  "Nay, nay, little brother! We are doing all of the

  things we talked about—after your meeting with the

  doctor," Sander replied.

  "Such a tricky monkey you are! I will tell her that

  you are the reason I go crazy in my head! And then she

  will make you go to the rubber room in the white coat with

  your hands tied like my shoes! You will see!"

  "Off with you! I'll wait here."

  "...And miss Johnnie! And play love songs on the

  stereo! And cry like a big baby for your Johnnie, Johnnie,

  John-John!" he teased, hopping out of the car. "Don't

  drown yourself! I'll be back soon!" he promised, traipsing

  off across the walkway to the double doors of the medical

  building.

  "WOULD YOU LIKE TO STAY out here and visit with the

  fish while we talk a little?" Helle asked Jannik. "It's nobody

  here today but you and me and the fishes," she said.

  "Yes! I like them very much. They make things very

  slow and calm," Jannik said.

  "That's why they're here. Sometimes I need to be

  calm and I just come out here and sit with them. I like the

  angelfish. They're so serene. Do you know that word?"

  Jannik shot her a glance; one of, Please lady, who the fuck

  do you think you're talking to here?

  "I'm sorry I asked you that. What was I thinking?"

  "Maybe the fish made you too serene," Jannik

  smiled. "What shall we talk about?"

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "I don't know. You say," Jannik replied. "You're the

  shrink."

  "Well, how about we pick up where we left off last

  time. Do you remember what I asked you?"

  "You wanted to know what I think about when I'm

  having a private time with myself," Jannik said. "I wonder

  why you wonder this."

  "Because those thoughts, images, whatever you're

  thinking about at those times can cause a lot of guilt. And

  guilt is a very bad thing because it cripples you worse than

  if your leg was broken," Helle explained. "It's not that

  you're having a fun time with yourself. Everybody does. I

  just want to make sure that the things that cross your mind

  are healthy for you, and that you're not hurting yourself in

  some way."

  "Oh." Jannik fixated on an Oscar fish, watching it

  lope among the faux porcelain shipwrecks in its own real

  time slow motion. It seemed like it locked eyes with the

  boy, who must have appeared frighteningly giant-like to

  his limited sentience.

  "Jannik?" Helle prodded. "Are you with me?"

  Jannik nodded, never breaking eye contact with the fish.

  "Can you share what you're thinking right now?" He

  turned to her, tears running silently down his face.

  "HELLE WANTS TO SEE YOU," Jannik reported to his

  brother as he climbed into the car. "I'm supposed to wait

  for you here."

  "Ooo! You're in trouble now!" Sander chuckled, as

  he started out of the car. As he turned to lock the door he

  caught Jannik's serious mood, head facing the floor, the

  little guy avoiding eye contact with him.

  "What's wrong, Spiderman?" Sander asked. Jannik

  just shrugged his shoulders and descended into another

  crying jag, confusing and alarming his brother even more.

  "Come with me. It's not that bad, whatever it is, okay?"

  And he helped Jannik out of the car, walking to the

  building with his arm securely embracing the sobbing boy.

  "WE DON'T HAVE AN SAS EVAC team anywhere in the

  area. Leastways not that we could risk revealing. And I

  don't know that we'd be able to get them there in time

  even if we did," Fouts-Rushbrook said, feeling the

  frustration that was not in short supply.

  "I have another idea, but it's a whopper," I said. "I

  don't know what kind of latitude you've been given, but if

  we do what I'm thinking of, we'll get 'em out no problem.

  It's up to your side, I guess."

  "Oh? Do tell..."

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Sander took Jannik to the stores,

  and stopped to let him grab some McDonald's take away.

  By late afternoon they were on the drive home. Neither

  had spoken a word, and whereas before it was Jannik who

  had been emotional, it was all Sander could do just to hold

  it together until he reached the safety of his bedroom and

  could release the tears.

  He was gutted.

  It was so difficult for Helle to even form the words,

  but it had to be discussed. There was no denying that.

  Jannik, she had said, you should tell your brother what you

  shared with me earlier. He needs to know, and he should hear it

  from you.

  "You tell him! You didn't even want me to come

  back up here. You were gonna tell him, so tell him. I can't!"

  Jannik sobbed.

  "What happened, Jan? You can tell me anything.

  We're brothers, yes? Did somebody do something to hurt

  you?" Sander asked. Jannik shook his
head.

  "No! Nobody hurt me, brother! I hurt you! And I'm

  so sorry! But I can't say it because you'll hate me forever

  and ever and I can't take that!" Jannik cried.

  Sander's eyes met Helle's. Clearly he didn't know

  where to go with this. He was really becoming worried for

  his little brother, and truly was at a loss for what to do

  about it.

  "Jannik," Helle began, "the sooner that we talk

  about this, the sooner we can fix it and move on."

  "Don't you see? If I say it, things will never be the

  same again, and if they hate me forever I don't blame

  them! Why do I have to even say it?" Jannik pleaded. "It

  won't help anything!"

  "Yes it will! It will help you. And that's who we're

  here to help, don't you agree, brother?" Helle looked at

  Sander and said.

  "I do. I really do, and she's right, Cracker Jack! You

  have to tell me so things for you can be good again."

  "You'll never be my friend anymore! You'll never

  call me Cracker Jack or Spiderman! You'll just be finished

  with me, I know it!" he exclaimed, another round of sobs

  obscuring his words.

  They let him cry it out for awhile, and when he

  calmed down a bit Sander pulled his driving license from

  his wallet, making eye contact with Helle and giving her a

  wink.

  "Tell you what. Don't tell me. Tell my picture. You

  won't even have to look at me; look at this instead, and just

  tell it to the pic!" Sander said. "Go ahead, take it. Look right

  at it and say all you've got to say! How's that sound?"

  Jannik nodded, and fixated on the driving license

  photo. "Brother," he began, "I'm so very sorry, but I have

  really done something I am so ashamed of and I don't

  know the best way to say it. But I'm sorry."

  "What are you sorry for?" Helle asked him.

  "I'm sorry because I violated your privacy. Both

  you and Johnnie. And I'm so sorry," Jannik said. "I spied

  on you sometimes when you were being together in your

  bedroom. I watched and I did some things I should be

  ashamed of. I'm sorry! And now you hate me, I know it!"

  "Nobody hates you, Jannik. Your brother doesn't

  hate you, I'm sure," Helle offered.

  "Did he? ...

  "He masturbated outside your door while he

  watched you being intimate with your partner."

  "Yeah. Well. That's not good, is it?" Sander told

  him. "Why did you do it?"

  "I was curious." Jannik replied.

  "Okay. Maybe the first time. How many times did

  you do it?" Sander asked. Jannik raised his hand and

  displayed four fingers, avoiding Sander's stern gaze. "I see.

  Well," he said, turning to Helle, "is that all then? Can I take

  him home now?" Helle replied with a nod, and soon they

  were on the car ride back to Gelsted.

  Chapter 23

  loody brilliant, mate," Fouts-Rushbrook exclaimed

  " after I gave him a pencil sketch idea of my

  B extrication plan. Now it was all about whether or

  not he could get the pieces on the board. "Go tell them

  we'll need an aircraft standing by that'll seat eight and

  luggage, and I'll take care of that other little matter. And

  then tell the embassy in Rabat what we're up to and we'll

  get this show on the road!"

  "Sure thing, Foutsey. You want anything from the

  canteen for the plane ride?" I asked him.

  "Oh, heavens, yes. I'm rather famished, as it

  happens. Choose something tasty and unhealthy, if you'd

  be so kind. I'll meet you in the hangar in about an hour."

  The clock was ticking. And I was starting to feel my

  favorite feeling at work—Job High! It starts with some

  light-headedness that manifests in kind of a weightless

  feeling around my feet. That's when I know the

  adrenaline—the good kind, not the scared shitless kind—is

  beginning to make itself known.

  I get hyper-happy, like you're supposed to feel like

  on Ecstasy, only without the dry mouth and resulting

  dehydration. I went to the comm station and got a secure

  routing to the security chief at the British Embassy.

  "Harrods on Mayfair," the officer answered. "Who

  may I say is calling?"

  "Western Cousin Coach Line for your travel

  arrangements, sir." came my reply.

  "Go ahead."

  "Smith-Jones, party of four, Charlie-Uniform-Tango

  plus twelve local, on Brighton at 3-3-decimal-8-2-8-4-

  Niner-4, by 7-decimal-1-5-1-4-7-8-Stop. Finish with

  engine."

  "Understood—read back..." And he repeated it all

  flawlessly. Then the line went silent, and I made for the

  grub!

  You may wonder what all the gibberish means. It's

  pretty straightforward, actually. Any middle-schooler

  playing Spy vs. Spy in the playground could easily figure

  it out. But what those kids don't have is the code book that

  changes everything that is obvious, to a place nobody in

  the DST would or could ever figure out, even if they had

  the time to do it.

  So, to break it down: Harrods on Mayfair is nothing

  more than the telephone greeting code of the twenty-four

  hours beginning at 0001 Coordinated Universal Time—

  that's the world time standard at Greenwich Observatory

  near London—until 23:59 a day later. If the of-the-day

  greeting given was different, I would have hung up the

  phone immediately and found out the reason why.

  When he asked who the call was from, I responded

  with a code identifying me as a field transporter getting

  ready to move some assets within his area. I identified

  them as Smith-Jones, total of four bodies being moved.

  Again, Smith-Jones is a code word established solely for

  the people being moved, so anyone listening in would

  never be able to figure out who they are exactly. For all

  they would know, it could be anyone from the Queen of

  England who is being moved, down to the guy who

  washes the dishes in the ambassador's residence. That

  code changes daily, too.

  The Charlie-Uniform-Tango plus twelve simply

  means Coordinated Universal Time plus twelve hours

  from the time that the call is taking place. Ah! But is it

  twelve hours really? Or does the code book reflect that

  twelve hours is actually three hours? Or fifteen hours?

  Hey, the bad guys have a one-in-twenty-four odds of

  figuring that one out.

  Finally, the big number! The actual satellite global

  positioning system location of the pick-up, good to within

  three meters. But once again, between you and me and the

  losers at the DST, it's a false flag.

  Those

  numbers

  actually mean another number entirely that will lead our

  travelers to exactly where they need to be in order to be

  scooped safely into my waiting arms. Eat shit, DST!

  I loaded my backpack to bursting with some

  awesome munchies courtesy of Uncle Sam, and met

  Foutsey back at the plane. It was a gorgeous Cessna

  Caravan painted in FedEx livery
. The only way that you

  could tell that it was a government plane working an asset

  extraction? ... You couldn't!

  The pilots were even dressed in FedEx gear with

  cute little stripes on their epaulets. To all intents and

  purposes, we were a FedEx plane filled to the brim with

  packages that absolutely, positively had to be there

  overnight!

  "Well this is certainly First Cabin," Foutsey smiled.

  "This isn't half bad!"

  "Port out, Starboard home!" I said.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Port side out, Starboard side home—POSH!" I told

  him.

  "Posh! Oh yes. Of course I know what posh means,

  old boy, but I'm afraid I'm at a loss with the reference you

  use..."

  "What?!" I joked. "You're an upper crust Brit and

  you don't know where the word Posh comes from?"

  "I'm afraid you'll have to school me, my man!" he

  grinned.

  "Well, back in the day, the best and most luxurious

  cabins on the Union Castle steamers to Africa were the

  ones that faced the coastline. You were considered very

  well-to-do if you paid the extra quid to have that view on

  your trip, right? So if you were headed to South Africa

  from England, in order to view the coastline the whole

  way, you'd book a port side cabin on the outward journey,

  and book a starboard side cabin for the return. Ergo, old

  chap, Port Out, Starboard, Home—POSH!"

  "Well bloody hell! Aren't you just the Walking

  Wiki," he laughed.

  "I know. Annoying, isn't it?" I smiled.

  The flight was a pleasurable and uneventful three

  hours. We played cards, downed some sandwiches and

  junk food, drank some bottled tea, and told a rasher of

  badly inappropriate jokes. We knew we'd struck comedy

  gold when the pilots laughed and started contributing

  their own ribald stories, many of them featuring

  stewardesses in various states of undress.

  So I haven't yet told you what the extraction plan

  is. That's because I wanted to save the coolest bit, because

  it's one hell of a surprise. But it's time to let you know

  where this crate we're flying on is headed. We're a few

  minutes away from the British overseas territory of

  Gibraltar, which is just across the mouth of the

  Mediterranean from our goal site of Rabat, Morocco.

  Something really cool about the Gibraltar airport is

  that its primary runway crosses the main road—a major