Book 2: Operation Detour

Episode 5

© by William Arthur Holmes

Chinatown

The streets are bursting with life, even this late, as I set out on foot. I breathe in deeply a couple times, hoping it will relieve my headache. Bad idea. The air is thick with exhaust, sewer gases and a sort of dull combination of every spice I’ve ever smelled before. From that point onward, I keep my breathing brief and shallow.

A few blocks later, I find the source of the smell: Chinatown. An endless stream of vendors are selling every sort of cheap imitation merchandise anyone could ever want.

In a presentable-enough little restaurant along the way, I go in and take a seat. A smiling Chinese woman hands me a menu. It doesn’t come with subtitles so I choose an item at random and ask the server for a translation.

She doesn’t speak English.

“Maybe I can help,” says a familiar voice behind me.

I turn to see Riva standing there, smiling. “All right, this is...” I begin. “What are the odds of running into you here on the other side of the world?”

Feigning innocence, she says, “I know! What are the odds?”

Surprising myself, I ask her to join me.

In Cantonese, she places our orders for us. The waitress nods, and disappears into the kitchen.

As Riva sits across from me – facing the front door – I ask, “So, who are you with? CIA? NSA?”

“Seriously?” she deadpans. “You think you rate a visit from one of them?”

“IRS? TSA? NBA?”

“Does it matter?” she laughs.

“I’m just curious why you’re so interested, enough to follow me all the way to Kuala Lumpur.”

“I’m with a reality TV show,” she offers. “We follow random people. Make a show out of it.”

There is an awkward silence. It is obvious I don’t believe her.

When I catch myself looking deep into her eyes – pulled in like a magnet – I break the spell by asking, “So, who are you with, really?”

“Persistent,” she says. “I will give you that. Here’s the deal: You do this one thing for me, and I am out of your life. Forever.”

“Deal! Why didn’t you say so? Who do I have to kill?”

“You think you’re joking,” a thin smile crosses her lips.

“No way,” my jaw drops. “I don’t kill people.”

“Let me put it this way,” she explains, “you either do me this one favor or I have you arrested for grand theft auto.”

“Grand theft...? Oh, the Hummer.”

She nods.

“How’d you know about that?”

“You said it yourself, I have been following you. Deal?”

“Why would anyone be following me?” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the situation. “Did Cheryl and Christian put you up to this?”

“No,” she laughs again. “They have no idea where we are. You think they have that kind of money?”

“I don’t know. There’s good money in porn. How much do you charge to follow someone halfway around the world?”

“Even if they had the money, trust me, they wouldn’t spend it on you. Let me tell you about your old buddy Christian. Do you know what he was doing for extra cash?”

“Besides the home-made porn? No.”

“He has sex with older men for money. Rich men. Big money.”

I recoil, but am not surprised. He wanted to have sex with me once, but I chalked it up to his being so drunk and/or high that he would have had sex with anyone, male, female or unknown. I’ve never gotten to that point, myself.

“You are lucky,” she continues, “to be rid of your old girlfriend Cheryl, as well. She never stopped seeing him, even after she moved in with you. Have you been tested lately?”

“No,” I argue, “she broke up with him. Whenever they had sex after that, it was just business.”

“Can you hear yourself?” she shakes her head. “It does not matter if you believe me. It is true. Now, will you go with me or will you go to prison? Your choice.”

“I’m not helping you with anything. Why should I? You’re probably the one who got me fired.” The words come out before it fully sinks in. “That’s it! That’s why I lost my job. You had me fired... somehow. They loved me over there, until all of a sudden...”

Riva is shaking her head.

“What about this disease they say I have? Was that you, too? I’m not really dying, am I? Please tell me I’m not dying!”

“You have quite an imagination, Dobie. You think I am capable of all that?” She shakes her head. “I am afraid you lost your job and girlfriend all by yourself. As for this disease, I will have to take your word for it. You still owe me.”

“Owe you? For what?”

“The incident with airport security at LAX.”

Nothing is coming to mind.

“My phone call? The one that got you released?”

“Right, how could I forget? That was you?”

“Did you think it was your fairy godmother?”

I had, actually, thanks to the drugs. What I say aloud is, “I never thought about it. What about the drugs? The hallucinogenic – thank you very much – drugs I couldn’t stop taking? I’m sure you’re responsible for those, too, somehow.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” it is her turn to lie. “Anyway, if you do not do this thing for me now, I will have you arrested.”

“We’re in Kuala Lumpur! You have no jurisdiction.”

“No,” she admits, “but I can call a local politico I just met – Armin, lovely man – and, to use your word – bam! – you are in prison in a very foreign country where they have perfected the art of torture.

“Not a pretty picture, Dobie. So, what do you say? Are you in? I would rather work with you than against you, but either way I’ll get what I want. I always do.”

“I guess I have no choice,” I acquiesce, then ask, “So, what is this little project? Drugs? Guns? Credit default swaps?”

“Very simple,” says Riva. “You need to put this cell phone in a factory.”

“What? Oh, it’s a detonator! You think I’m stupid?”

“Not so loud!” she hisses.

“Why?”

“The factory owners’ spies might be listening.”

“Factories have spies?” As soon as I say it, I realize how naive that sounds.

“You think your life is bad now?” she says. “Either you do this or you become someone’s prison bitch. And, yes, factories have spies. And yes, I think you are stupid.”

“I’m a computer programmer! I’m not stupid.”

“You were a programmer,” she says, “back in the States. Now you are just another stupid American tourist. Besides, you might be smart with computers, but in real life, you are a complete idiot.” Serge’s term “stupid git” comes to her mind, but she doesn’t want to use his words.

“All large, multi-national corporations have their own off-the-books spies like me. Ever heard of corporate espionage?”

“You’ve got a funny way of influencing people,” I say. “Threats and insults. Does that work for you? Maybe they should send you to charm school, or at least Salesmanship 101.”

“Did I mention the part about becoming someone’s prison bitch? You are not bad looking. Not good looking, either. But not bad. Relatively young, but still too old for me. Soft white skin. Virgin.”

“I’m no virgin!” I protest. “And I’m only a few months older than your boyfriend Christian.”

“You look a lot older. Like ten years older, but he was not my boyfriend.”

I scowl, which doesn’t make me look any younger.

“But I assume your asshole is virgin?” she adds. “You will be very popular in prison.”

I cringe at the thought. She has me convinced.

“At least tell me who I’m blowing up.”

“Very bad people,” she repeats. “They use slave labor. Child labor.”

“How does blowing up their factory help?” When she has no answer, I continue, “Can I at least tell the factory workers to get out first?”

“Does a bank robber tell everyone to get out of the bank first?” Riva counters.

“I’ve seen that happen, yes.”

“On television,” she says. “This is not television! See what I mean about stupid?”

“I am really starting to dislike you,”

“That is probably for the best.”

The Factory

That night we board a small plane and fly I don’t know where. It’s completely dark out. We’re only in the air a few minutes, so it can’t be far. My internal compass tells me we’re flying west, so we’re probably flying east.

Upon landing, there is another Hummer – this one a black H3 – waiting for us on the tarmac. A small, dark Malaysian man standing next to the “vee-hickle” tosses Riva the keys and disappears into the night.

Climbing in – riding shotgun this time – I am reminded of Hummer Man and can’t help but wonder if he and his beloved car were ever reunited.

Riva puts it into gear, without grinding them. And, through the jungle and into a driving rainstorm we go. Where she stops, nobody knows.

After several minutes, she stops and points through the windshield. “There it is.”

“There what is?” I ask. The rain is so heavy I can barely make out the large red letters on a wall – presumably the side of a building, but I hate to assume anything at this point – a hundred feet in front of us. When the rain lets up momentarily I can read the letters MCK, whatever that stands for. It appears to be an industrial building, a factory.

Riva parks behind a rocky outcropping between us and the factory. She casually pulls out a vest wired with explosives and, turning toward me, says, “Here, put this on.”

“No way! Just shoot me now. I am not a suicide bomber.”

Pulling out one of its wires, she explains with a laugh, “I am pulling out this wire. With this disconnected, there is no way it can blow up. When you get down there, just put the wire – this wire – back in and hang the vest on something – a chair, perhaps – and I blow up the building remotely… after you signal me.”

“No,” I argue. “As soon as I put that wire back in, that’s when it blows up.”

“It won’t blow up on its own,” Riva is losing patience. “It needs to be detonated with a remote. I don’t know all the science behind it, but do know that much.”

“Prove it,” I say. “Put that wire back in right now. If we’re not blown to smithereens, I will believe you. And if we are, well, it’s been a pain in the ass knowing you.”

She laughs and puts the wire back in place. I wince but keep my eyes on the wire. When it is back in and we are still in one piece, I resume breathing.

It’s nice to be breathing. “Where’s the remote?”

She holds it up.

“Wait, I thought I was supposed to plant that.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Wait,” I stall again. “Don’t I at least get a gun?”

“So you can shoot me? No.”

“I won’t shoot you, I promise!”

“Just go,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, “before I do shoot you!”

~ ~ ~

There is a rocky, unpaved trail leading down to the factory buildings. Wearing night-vision goggles, with my cool new vest under a dark green rain slicker, I walk slowly down toward my target.

It’s a surreal experience; like one of those dreams where everything is juxtaposed, out of place. As I am hopping down the bunny trail, convinced that I will soon be meeting my Maker, the old Hall & Oates song Maneater comes to mind.

I start singing.

Oh oh here she comes
Watch out boy, she’ll blow you up
Oh oh here she comes
She’s a maneater

~ ~ ~

The maneater watches from afar through her own pair of night-vision binoculars as Dobie enters the factory through its unguarded and unlocked front door.

When he does not reappear within two minutes – the amount of time she figured it should take the average person to plug in a wire and hang a vest on a chair – she shakes her head.

“Stupid.”