Chapter 4 - “Underground Railroad”

Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport.  Concourse A.  A rare pleasant airport eating place called, of all things, the Sam Adams Brewhouse.

From a carefully selected vantage point at the bar, Mary Patire and Eric Umali kept a close watch on the departure schedule displays.  They sat polishing off a late lunch while waiting for a bit of inspiration to decide their next destination.

“So this was your big idea, huh?” Mary asked, teasing.

Eric shrugged.  “Some ideas work, some don’t.”

“Where were you planning on going, anyway?”

He took a long sip of his beer before answering.  “Mexico.  Canc?n, to be specific.”

“That would have been great,” she said, almost disappointed.  “What was the problem?”

“Hurricane season.”  Eric drained the mug, and ordered another.

During the exchange, neither paid much attention to the young Asian man who quietly entered, took the stool beside Mary and ordered a drink.  As he nursed the beer, his dark eyes continually glanced at them, taking quick stock.  As the bartender brought Eric and Mary’s bill, the young man made his decision.

Eric was reaching for his wallet when he tossed a few crisp bills on the bar.  “Allow me,” he said.

Mary glanced at her companion as they both instantly became defensive.  “I’m sorry?”

“Do we know you?”

The young man shook his head.  “No you don’t,” he said, “but I know the two of you– by reputation, at least.”

“Look, I’m afraid we can’t accept,” said Eric, holding out the bills.

“You won’t take my money, but you’ll take Mister Frost’s?”

The shock registered on their faces for only a moment before they both slid from their stools, ready to bolt.  They young man stepped into their path.

“I’m not the one after you.”  A sad smiled came to his face.  “And if I was, the gun that would be in my pocket would convince you to stay.”

Visibly reluctant, they returned to their seats, as did he.

“I should start by introducing myself.  My name is Bhak– my last name isn’t important.  Yes, I know about your… situation.”

“How?”  Understandably, Mary remained cautious.

The sadness returned, and as he spoke, it became obvious it was the more common state for him.  “Mister Frost and his organization… recruited my brother a few years ago.  He was holed up in a Motel Six in Nowhere, Arizona when some rich kid put a .44 magnum slug in his back.”

He looked at them both, and was met by impassive stares.  Bhak nodded.  “You’re not sure you believe me.  You’re defensive, cautious, and ready to knock me to the floor and run.  Good.  Those are the kind of instincts that will keep you alive.”

“What’s your point?”

Bhak reached down into the bag at his feet, producing a pair of computer printed sheets.  On each of them was a black-and-white photo of one of their pursuers.

“These _are_ the people after you.  The four of you make a very nice set.  I’m surprised Frost didn’t match you up right off the bat.”

“Assuming you’re telling the truth,” Eric said, “how do you know so much about all this?”

“Frost’s computer database isn’t quite as secure as he thinks it is,” Bhak answered with a touch of pride.  “I’ve gotten just enough access to identify both hunters and runners.  When I crack the whole thing, I’ll turn him over to the authorities.  Until then, I guess you could say I run sort of an ‘underground railroad’ for people like you.”

Mary shook her head.  “What makes you think we’d believe you?”

He produced his wallet, pulling out a small, laminated newspaper clipping and a creased, faded snapshot.  “Unidentified Man Murdered,” read the tiny tag-line on the brief report, above an artist’s rendering of an Asian male in his late twenties, wearing glasses.  The picture showed the victim, hale and happy, standing beside an equally happy Bhak.

“That was taken on his last birthday,” said Bhak before replacing the items.  He finished his own drink, and laid a five-dollar bill beside the empty mug.  “I can be back here in two hours with everything you need to get out of the country.”

“How?”

“When Frost picked my brother, he thought it would be interesting for rich kids to hunt their own kind.  I may not have their kind of resources, but I make do.”  He crossed his arms.  “Well?”

Eric turned to Mary, who shrugged.  He took a deep breath before answering.  “Be at the Hudson News closest to the entrance of this concourse in two hours.”

“You’ll be there?”

“Maybe.”

“Fair enough,” said Bhak, nodding.  He picked up his bag and left without another word.

They watched him disappear past the security checkpoint.  “It’s a hell of a gamble.  You think we can trust him?” Mary asked.

“Gut reaction?  Yes.”

“He doesn’t sound like the guy on the phone in Miami, and that picture is pretty convincing.”  She tapped her fingers on the bar rail for a few seconds, thinking.  “I need to think about it.”

Eric nodded.  “I’m gonna need another drink.  I think the weirdness of all this starting to get to me.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Uh-uh,” he said, “you’re just a young’n.  They won’t serve you.”

“It’s all about attitude.  Just watch.”

**********

After retrieving his bag from the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt, Bhak checked the small package inside once more.  Satisfied that everything inside the small leather organizer was in order, he headed for the newsstand.

As casually as he could, the young man scanned the small shop.  It was nearly six, and only a few travelers were perusing the magazine racks.  Bhak checked his watch again, confirming that he was precisely on time, as he thought.  Taking a place near the film and entertainment section, he waited, one eye on the door.

It was then he noticed them approaching the shop from the passenger lounge opposite, from where they’d apparently been watching for him.  They entered, and took their time to walk up to him.

“You made the right decision,” said Bhak.  He produced the organizer and held it out, though neither Eric or Mary’s eyes left his.

“What’s inside?” Mary asked.

“Passports with plenty of visas, international hostel and rail passes, credit cards, driver’s licenses… plus a few bona fides to get you into some of the world’s more interesting clubs and such.”

Eric glanced at the thing for a moment.  “Where’d you get passport photos?”

The young man almost smiled.  “Your web page.”

Declining to comment, Eric asked Mary, “Do you want to check?”

“It’s your toy,” she answered with a shrug.

Bhak watched as Eric drew what at first he took for a palm organizer from his jacket.  Eric pressed a few controls on its surface, then seemed to wave it over the leather book.  He then raised it, apparently to check some kind of readings, before putting it away again.

Eric turned to Mary.  “It’s clean, as far as I can tell.  No transmissions, no explosives– but we’d have to crack it open to be sure.”

“That’s a handy little device,” said Bhak.

“Oh, yeah, he’s a regular MacGyver,” Mary answered impatiently.  “Who gets the bill on those credit cards?”

“The charges double back a few dozen times through dummy accounts, then end up getting billed to one of the companies Frost uses to evade Uncle Sam.”

“Meaning he can track us that way.”

“The way credit companies work, it’d be months after the original charge was made before Frost would even see the bill.”

Eric took the organizer from Bhak and held it up.  “We’ll take it.  We may use it–“

“Or you may toss it in the nearest trash can,” Bhak finished.  “I understand.”  He started for the door, then turned back.  “I’ve seen more than a dozen of you in the last few years.  This is the first time I’d put my money on the runners.”  Bhak turned away again, and left.

Mary looked at the organizer, then at Eric.  “Let’s take a closer look at it, then make our decision.”

He nodded.  “And if we do go, I’ve got the perfect place.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she answered, incredulous.

“This time I mean it.  And you gave me the idea, too.”

“Sometimes you enjoy this too much.”

As Eric purchased the tickets, Mary brought the leather organizer to a pay phone stall, examining it.  Even going so far as to slit open the lining with a razor, she found everything as promised, without any surprises.  She was just closing it up when Eric arrived.

“Come on, we’ve got a connection to make to JFK.”

“And from there?”

Eric seemed indecently pleased with himself.  “But that would be telling.”

“Not even a hint?” she asked, with a wide-eyed expression she knew from experience he’d find difficult denying.

He laughed.  “Three words, Doll–“

“Bond… James Bond.”

TO BE CONTINUED…