Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Page 4

  “Snow, yes. There is snow. And there are good lives for good men, also.” They had ushered him out of an unguarded door, and pushed him into the back of a nondescript delivery truck. An hour later, Dio was with Yvonne, and the two of them were boarding a plane bound for a refuelling in Frankfurt. From there, the two exiles had proceeded onward towards the United States.

  Those words, though; Dio would never forget those words. ‘Good lives for good men’. Those were words to live by. Words to die for. They were the words that were, for him, the first, last, and only things that he needed to know about The Organisation. His consternation was that he was unable to do more for his rescuers. But Mossad’s network was vast – the two double-agents who came for him had been the exception, not the rule – and the Americans held Israel’s interests as their own. At least insofar as traitors like Dio were concerned. Thus, for the time being, he had no choice but to stay where he was. And while, at first, the literality of ‘going underground’ by way of co-habiting in a bunker was amusing to him...after a year, the joke had begun to wear a little thin.

  “Dio?”

  “Sorry, what? I was elsewhere.”

  “Plus one: how many is that, now?”

  “That brings us to...” Dio looked down at the document, running a finger down the messy running total he’d been keeping just outside the table’s right margin. “Seventy-three.”

  “Really? That’s going to be a very long night.”

  “Too many.” He frowned. “This is far too many for...what was it? Eight hours?”

  “Sounds about right...”

  “This is just Pueblo. Pueblo alone. What if we can’t manage this many?”

  “It won’t matter. I think they’re assuming that we won’t be able to bring all of them in ourselves. They never said there wouldn’t be more people available to help, either.” There was a loud, resonant ‘clang’ as the hatch was pulled open, and then, several seconds later, an even louder one as it was moved back into place. Footsteps followed, echoing in waves as stiff leather struck plated steel. Simultaneously, Dio and Yvonne moved for their guns. The footsteps stopped. From around a corner:

  “Esquilinum!” The voice exclaimed tiredly.

  “Confirmation?” Yvonne responded; her tone constrained by a well-drilled, utterly automated, and recognisably military form of precision.

  “Whiskey-Romeo...lima, quebec, alpha, echo, uniform.” Whiskey-Romeo was the ID-code for their direct superior; a man known only as ‘Wright’. The rest of it was a randomised expression cycled by twelve hour increments, known to only senior personnel and to networked security devices. One such device was Yvonne’s wristwatch. The system was tailored to verify identity: to allow – and restrict, where necessary – access to various facilities.

  “Wait for verification.” Without lowering her gun, Yvonne glanced at her watch. The glass panel flashed green.

  “Wright?” Yvonne called out.

  “Hello, Yvonne. Hello, Dio.”

  “The code’s good.”

  “Excellent.” The mysterious figure of ‘Wright’ rounded the corner, trailed by a steel-and-sky-eyed blonde in an expensive, grey, three-piece suit. Her hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail. Dio’s brow furrowed. He was sure that he would have noticed if there’d been more than one set of footsteps. As the two of them walked further into the room, he realised why he hadn’t. It should have occurred to him the second he saw the blonde. After all: he knew an ops agent when he saw one.

  It was the way they carried themselves, largely. The unnerving self-assurance with which their movements were infused only came with gruelling and exhaustive exploration of one’s mental and physical capabilities. Wright didn’t have it. Dio didn’t have it. The mysterious newcomer did. And so – however hard she tried to hide it – did Yvonne.

  What Wright’s companion must have been doing, Dio hypothesised, was the same thing that, on occasion, he’d noticed Yvonne doing. Subconsciously, of course; without meaning to at all. The short, violent-looking blonde must have been mirroring Wright’s footfalls: timing them precisely to mask her own. Dio remembered that, once – and only once – he, extremely impressed, had tried to replicate the trick with Yvonne. He shivered at the memory.

  “And, may I say...outstanding form, Yvonne.”

  “Just following procedure.”

  “To the letter, yes. If we had five more of you, we’d need fifty less in general.”

  “Sir.” Yvonne looked down at her feet, seeming almost embarrassed by the praise. Yvonne had always been Wright’s favourite. It didn’t surprise Dio in the least: he’d never seen her make a single mistake, in any task that had been required of her. Ever. But then, given what he knew of her past – the small amount he’d managed to decipher – it seemed to make a reasonable amount of sense.

  “This is operative Smoke.”

  “Pleasure.” Yvonne said, holding out her hand. She and Dio exchanged a look. They were both aware that, beyond a certain level, the identities of those who worked for The Organisation were all obfuscated behind aliases. Aside from the more obvious functions of such a system, the aliases also had the effect of conferring an aura of superiority on their bearers. As Yvonne had commented to Dio soon after their arrival: ‘at the end of the day, they all mean the same thing. Power.’

  “Charmed.” Smoke glanced at Yvonne’s hand without moving to shake it. Awkwardly, Yvonne dropped her arm: her cheeks reddening.

  “Operative Smoke has been helping us with a bit of a...‘personnel reshuffle’. There’re some big changes on the way, and we’re trying to optimise placements ahead of that. Speaking of which: as it turns out, the good work you two have been doing has been noticed.” Dio was concerned. When men of few words started speaking excessively, they generally weren’t about to say anything good.

  “You’re being reassigned.” Smoke snapped, seeming bored.

  “Yes.” Wright cast a doubtful glance in her direction, to which she simply rolled her eyes. “Two vacancies have been...created. First: there are several minor details to briefly touch on pertaining to your newly upgraded levels of clearance. Subsequently, operative Smoke will accompany you to your new home.”

  “Where?” Yvonne asked.

  “Palatine Hill.” Smoke elaborated coldly.

  III – Certifiable Migrator

  ~ Kayla ~

  23/11/2023

  I guess I should probably explain why Meg was walking me down the aisle. See...Naithe and I – in part because of my lack of family or close, in-country friends – had decided that instead of fighting the situation and trying to be ‘traditional’ regardless, we’d embrace it...and just change bits and pieces as we saw fit. This was one such change. More to the point, it was one of my favourite changes. I’d even go so far as to say that I would’ve wanted it that way regardless of alternative options. After all, I’d never really loved the idea of being ‘given away’. But having Meg there with me, just being my best friend, all the way to the final moment? I liked that just fine.

  As Meg and I made our way along the path to the pavilion, my eyes sought out Naithe’s. Not for reassurance, really, so much as to verify that he’d either been freaking out too, or holding it together better than I had. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure which of the two things I wanted to see. Hell, in retrospect, I’m not even sure which I did see. As I’d expected, he seemed to be quietly edging around the perimeter of a panic attack, but – apart from that – it was difficult to tell much of anything. He was twitchy, sure, and showing plenty of physical signs of nerves...but his facial expression was inscrutable. Ultimately, he seemed to be handling things about as well as he had been since the day started.

  At least he isn’t getting worse?

  Yeah...but, then again, ‘worse’ would have required either some kind of outburst or breakdown. So, saying ‘at least he isn’t getting worse’ was sort of like saying ‘at least we haven’t stepped on a mine in this mine-field that we’ve only walked through half of’. I
casually wondered if Meg had brought her Valium. If anyone had ever needed a downer, Naithe needed one then. And, like I said: physically, it showed.

  It showed in the way he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. It showed in the way that he kept looking around, adjusting the knot of the tie that was claustrophobically nestled up and into the bottom of his throat. The fidgeting, too: he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. On the tie thing, though: I’d known that that it would piss him off: It was that fucking top button. For a second – if it was even that long – I was irritated that it was irritating him. Mostly because...y’know...I’d spent the last twenty minutes having an existential crisis in a fucking corset.

  Our first corset. Our last fucking corset...

  Yeah. Absolutely, definitely. That said, though...it was almost worth it. Even I couldn’t stop glancing down at my chest. For a fleeting moment in time, I utterly, genuinely understood the desire to get a boob-job.

  Anyway...

  Arriving at the Pavilion, I moved into position facing him: grimacing sympathetically. Meg took her place off to my left, giving me a subtle, reassuring nudge with her elbow as she did so. I threw Naithe my best approximation of a reassuring smile: just...y’know... ‘paying it forward’, or whatever the saying is.

  Naithe smiled at me, seeming to relax a little. But still he appeared insistently determined to pull at the top of his tie. It did briefly occur to me that if he’d actually listened to me instead of being the stubborn little masochist he so enjoyed being, he wouldn’t have had to deal with it at all. I’d told him that he could unbutton his shirt down to his stomach and leave it untucked for all I cared. I’d more-or-less meant it, too.

  “You don’t have to worry about it on my account. I’m Australian.” My reasoning had been. “As long as there’s beer at the reception, I’m good.” Meg – our constant companion through most of the planning and discussion – had, without looking up from a magazine she was reading, held out a fist for me to bump. With a reluctant eye-roll, I’d acquiesced.

  “Stop acting like guys. Why don’t I ever get to be the guy?” He’d snarked. I’d almost choked on a mouthful of beer.

  “You...don’t want an answer to that. Trust me.” Meg had shaken her head, looking up from her magazine to meet his eyes. He’d held up his hands, as if to say: ‘try me’.

  “Okay fine,” I’d shrugged. “How about...you don’t like sports? And you even use the term ‘sports’ as a catch-all instead of specifying a particular sport?”

  “And I’ve actually heard you use the phrase: ‘making love’ without a hint of irony.” Meg had added, joining in.

  “Not while he’s been with me, right?” I’d recoiled in mock-horror. Meg had placed a hand on my knee; her shaking head and playfully sombre eyes conveying the news. “Oh, gross, Naithe...”

  “You have, too!”

  “In private.” I’d clarified: “And only when you wouldn’t put out, otherwise,”

  “Ugh...I dunno what’s worse; that I’m hearing my best friend saying that about my nephew, or that it actually sounds like it worked,”

  “Oh, it definitely worked,” I’d smirked, winking at her.

  “Yeah. It kinda did...” Naithe admitted with a sly little grin.

  “Appalling. Have some self-respect, lady.” Meg had mocked; the comment directed at Naithe. “Who’s gonna buy the cow when the cow gives it up for free?” I’d burst out laughing.

  “I’ve got one,” I managed to compose myself long enough to interject: “How about...‘cause all your favourite alcoholic drinks are fruit-flavoured?” I took a demonstrative and uncouth swig of beer; swiping over my lips with my forearm for effect.

  “I hope you get scurvy.” he’d stated, as if it were a universally held understanding that avoiding the disease was directly causally linked to imbibing girly alco-pops. If he’d been able to keep a straight face, I probably would have just about died laughing.

  “Not just fruit,” Meg had amended. “Weird fruit. Tangerine...pomegranate...kiwifruit – ”

  “ – For one thing, I like a lot of different drinks – ”

  “ – Not beer.” I’d interjected.

  “Hey.” He’d pointed in my direction, as if to say: ‘Wait your turn, at least’. “And another thing: Kiwifruit is weird now?”

  “It’s named after a calf-high, flightless bird.” Meg had deadpanned. “Yeah: it’s fucking weird.”

  “Also: you don’t like violent video games...you can change diapers with, like, a professional level of skill – ” I’d listed off, before Meg cut in with:

  “ – And you were born with a vagi – ”

  “ – Hey. Enough. No more.”

  “That’s what she said.” Meg had snorted. Naithe had just rolled his eyes. “And see? You don’t think sexist jokes are funny.” Meg had lamented.

  “It wasn’t that sexist, and it wasn’t funny: period.” He deadpanned.

  “Ha. Period.” Meg chuckled.

  “Are you eight?” Naithe exhaled – hard – with exaggerated exasperation. Meg just held out a hand, indicating: ‘exhibit A’.

  “It’s not looking good, Miss...” I’d agreed.

  “Fine. Whatever. Do you want to wear the tux?” He’d snapped at me: “You can wear the tux if you want to.”

  “I’ll wear the tux if you wear the dress.” I’d challenged.

  “There might be something to that,” Meg had cut in. “You’d look sexy in eyeliner, Naithe.”

  Back in the present, I smiled a private little smile...enjoying the memory of that night. It had been only days ago: the last full weekend before the wedding. Nerves were frayed – mostly Naithe’s – and tempers were short – mostly mine – thanks to a last-ditch-effort by Naithe’s mother to slip another dozen guests past us and onto the guest-list unnoticed. I had to hand it to her: she didn’t do things by halves. She’d gone so far as to organise seating for them, call the caterers, and forge the requisite place settings. If it wasn’t for Naithe’s eagle eye – and, of course, the paranoia instilled from years of living with the woman – it would absolutely have gotten past us. And, if Meg hadn’t been with us a week early to help us with the last of the preparation, it would have been me having to attempt to rip the woman who gave birth to my fiancé a new one, instead of her sister.

  Meg, like any good younger sister would have – or so I assume is the case, since my experience in this area was and is severely limited – had tried her best. We never actually discussed it, but the impression I got was that she’d been...well...torn apart. That any of us had been in a celebratory mood by the time the wedding rolled around was almost entirely due to Meg quickly moving past the hostility, and arriving at our apartment with what may or may not have been a hand-shaped red imprint on her face, and enough alcohol to kill a camel.

  That’s not right. Is it?

  Well it would have killed a camel. It just may have been...y’know...overkill.

  Naithe twitched awkwardly. I bit back a small laugh as I realised that he must have had an itch that he was desperately trying not to scratch. He rolled his eyes at me with a distracted little smirk. My eyes clutched hopefully for his...trying to read him again. This time – closer to one another as we were – it was easier.

  I could see resolve. Resolve was good. I could see certainty. Certainty was even better. I could also see that strange, focussed edge I’d occasionally seen in people’s eyes when they were looking at someone, but didn’t know – or didn’t care – that they were being observed.

  The first time I’d actually worked out what that look meant was a couple of months after I first met Naithe. I’d been doing my makeup in the bathroom mirror at the time. He’d elbowed in next to me to brush his teeth. It was...well...gross. I liked my personal space. I hated when a person I was getting off with viewed their encroachment on that personal space as a way of establishing – or, worse, viewed their encroachment as a sign of – intimacy. The extent of the irritation I’d ma
naged to muster, in this case, was a raised eyebrow and a smirk as I glanced over at him; a wordless ambivalence, conveyed through a shake of my head that said: ‘oh, really?’. When he’d bent to spit, my eyes had dropped to the reflection of the top of his head...but grazed past their own reflection on their way down. Then I knew.

  Love. It’s all in the eyes.

  So...yeah. I was naïve. And let’s not even get into what it says about me as a person that I needed a mirror to show me what love looked like and – worse – that I was in the mirror when I’d worked it out. I mean...I know what Freud would have said. Once he’d finished laughing at me, that is.

  Noticing me staring at him – no doubt with an idiotically cartoonish grin now plastered across my face – Naithe feigned exasperation, scowling. He couldn’t hold on to the veneer of seriousness for very long, though...quickly letting a broad smile overwhelm the bottom part of his face. For a minute, we stayed just like that: facing one another, smiling stupidly...our bare feet cool and slightly damp in the fresh-cut grass. I mimicked a twitch. He rolled his eyes again.

  “What?” I mouthed innocently, trying not to laugh.

  “You’re a sadist.” He leaned into the empty space between us to hiss the words into my ear.

  “Shh. It’s just such a special day, honey,” I said, my smile playfully malevolent.

  “This is ridiculous. And why didn’t we wear shoes?”

  “It’s a thing.” I insisted defensively.

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Suck it up, princess. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “That’s what she said.” He replied casually. It was like watching someone who was in the midst of pretending that a particularly complicated magic trick they just performed was, for them, very easy. Clearly he remembered the conversation from the previous weekend, too. I rocked back on my heels, covering my mouth and widening my eyes in a mute mockery of ‘awe’.