Phantom Shift-The Redux

This is Part Two in a series. You can read Part One Here. Please be sure to follow to Part Three at the End.

5:43 am, Anacostia, Washington. Jason Costas, a counterintelligence agent with the Defense Intelligence Agency waits for his bus. He had arrived in his position by a rather circuitous route after the Air Force. Despite the accident of his agency recruiter’s ignorance, confusing his last name with the common Spanish last name Costa, he was glad the man had stuck him in the Latin America division. It wasn’t much fun to keep working on signals intelligence at first, but things took off after his transfer to the human intelligence side of the house. The irony that his first deployment was as a civilian was never lost on him. But that was all in the past now. Long gone were his days of recruiting and running sources from Santiago to Caracas. No more getting chased through the narrow streets of favelas. What he would give for one more sunset on the beaches of Los Cobanos. But he’s a company man now. It was time to work his way up the ladder. One more year, and he could apply to the Office of General Counsel.

Ugh, another Tuesday morning, another cup of cheap coffee from Carlo. It’s not as terrible as I make it sound. I just wish I could treat myself to something from The Bean. I will never understand why Rebecca left the way she did. She knew I loved her with all my heart. And the kids, god, the kids. Why is it she ran off, but I’m stuck with only seeing them one weekend a month? How is it that a court can look at her and say that I am incapable of providing a stable home? My school loans were almost paid off, and the agency was taking care of law school. Now, here I am stuck paying minimum balances, struggling to finally finish law school, and funding Rebecca and Meredith’s best life off in who-knows-where their so-called “influencer” life takes them. At least the kids are with Rebecca’s mother now, even if that means they’re two hours outside the beltway.

I suppose I should be glad that Freddy helped me handle it the way we did. He was right, though. While I loved Rebecca, she never understood how much, or why. She only saw me as her beard. She disdained my nuanced view of the world. She only saw my work as continuing the cycle that “kept Colombia from reaching its full potential.” She never saw the hypocrisy in her vision of recreating Gran Colombia.

We spent hours debating the validity of Gran Colombia’s reemergence. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to settle that argument. Could it create greater regional stability? Possibly, she and her father were stuck in a 19th-century fantasy. Rebecca never understood or cared about the disruption of the international order. Latin America may not be at the forefront of the world’s mind, but disruption to one of the world’s major shipping lanes would elicit a response from the tentacles that latch on to her.

But those days have passed. Now it’s lonely nights, eating curry far too often, Facetiming with Símon and Mara when they’re not busy. At least there’s my lonely wandering the aisles of Haberdasher’s on Wednesdays. Still an odd name for a bookstore, but I get to see Mariam at the weekly book club meeting. Whoever came up with Semi-Public Introverts as the name of a spy fiction book club was a genius. And I can always use more time to work myself up to and back out of finally asking out Mariam. Perhaps tomorrow, then again, it’s always “I’ll do it next time.”

**********************************************************************

Wednesday, 6:08 pm, Mariam called Jason, “Hey Jason, are you going to join us!?”

“Uh, oh, yeah. I’ll be right there,” Jason stammered, feeling the temperature rise in his chest. Hearing Mariam’s Persian-infused English always made him blush a little. It was one of his least favorite traits he got from his mother. But what was the only pale-skinned child of a Scots-Irish mother and a bronze Grecian demi-god to do? At least he got the darkest hair, nobody expects kids with stereotypical Greek names to have copper-toned hair. “Just let me put this back,” he responded, sliding the mysterious little black book back into place, but upside down. He knew the blue, white, and green wiphala would stand out above the R.A.P. to ease finding it later.

8:25, Jason slipped back over to the aisle where he found the book. He could not help but notice the odd construction. Fine leather, that bent with ease, much like a bible. But inside it had pages like a common paperback.

Weird, there’s no title or publisher’s information. Just, what I presume is the author’s name “Raul,” a working title “Current Progress on Localized Phantom Universe Fieldcraft.” What a strange title? And it looks more like a photocopied journal, than an actual book book. “Oh well, time to take you home,” Jason whispered to the book.

“Jason, I hate to rush you but are you going to come back to reality, and buy that thing? I would like to get home at a decent time,” Mariam teased Jason from the end of the aisle. The book had enraptured him to the point that he had not noticed her presence. “Come on, I need to close some time tonight. And you can talk to your book at home.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I just got caught up in how weird this book looks. Have you ever heard of it?” Jason asked, laying the book on the counter.

“No, what’s it called?” Mariam asked as she picked up the book to scan it.

Translating the title from Portuguese for her, “‘Current Progress on Localized Phantom Universe Fieldcraft’ is written on the first page. There’s no publisher or any of the usual indications of who or where it was made. There's seal of the Brazilian Empire on the front, and the author just wrote his first name. Honestly, it looks like someone took their journal, and published photocopies,” Jason responded in a confused tone.

“Interesting, I take it that it’s nonfiction?” Mariam asked.

“I’m honestly buying it on the weirdness factor alone. Also, it has these hand-drawn schematics for what I think is a radio,” he said, pointing at the strange object on the page.

“That is strange. I’ve never seen anything like it, here or in the Navy. I wonder if it's one of the projects from the Cold War. Anyway, let me get you rung out. There’s no barcode sticker, how does ten bucks sound?” Mariam asked, surreptitiously slipping her note for Jason in between the pages.

“That’s fair, at least until I figure out what this thing is,” Jason said, as he pulled his wallet out. Handing her a twenty, Jason said with a sheepish smile, “you might want it back after that.” He hoped she would laugh at his awkward attempt at humor. It was always moments like that, on the precipice of asking her for coffee that he folded like a cheap chair.

How is it that I’ve spent the last 15 years recruiting and running some of the most important spies in Latin America, but this five-foot-six bundle of brains and beauty has me tongue-tied? Oh, well there’s always next time, he told himself as he turned the knob to leave.

The bus ride home was short, or at least it always felt short on S.P.I. club nights.

**********************************************************************

Saturday, 10:23 am, Jason laid on his couch, the book next to him. He hadn’t let the thing out of sight, much less showered. He awoke to four missed calls. He listened to Martha’s voicemail as he put his coffee in the microwave. The voice of Martha, Jason’s ex-mother-in-law, came through the speaker, “Good morning, Ya-son, Símon, and Mara were expecting you. Please call me back when you get this.”

Jason immediately called Símon’s phone, it rang twice before going to voicemail. He tried again, no answer. He called Martha’s house phone, “‘ello, Ya-son,” Martha answered in her thick Colombian accent.

“Buenos Dias, Martha. How are the kids?” Jason asked as he stirred the milk in his coffee.

“They’re fine. Símon is upset. Are you coming this weekend?” Martha asked with concern. It was unusual for Jason to not answer his phone, and he usually arrived early enough to have breakfast.

“Unfortunately, I am not. We had to let someone go, and I’ve been picking up the slack. Please have Símon call me when he’s ready. I’m not sure when this workload will let up,” Jason hated lying, but the book was too engrossing. He couldn’t help but begin to see himself in it. It was like reading a bizarre autobiography. One where every character had a slightly different name, and some of the locations listed were different. But the most bizarre character was that of “Raul”. It was at times far more bizarre than Jason could handle. The most intensely bizarre section was that of section five. The part where Raul detailed how he came into the possession of schematics and a prototype of the Kleptonium Temporal Modulator.

Why would a clandestine service officer risk stealing foreign technology himself? How was it that Raul’s time in the Kingdom of Araucanía and Patagonia mirrors my time in Buenos Aires? And they named the capital after the mad Frenchman Tounens? And if this thing is to be believed, López succeed in the Paraguayan War? And as a result, there’s no Argentina or Uruguay. Well, at least it’s interesting. Even if it reads like some kind of alternate history. And then there’s the cash under the bridge. Who leaves $20,000 in a park for three years? Especially one frequented by spooks of all kinds. I have to find that modulator and that cash. The cash helps in the short run but if the tech this guy is talking about, the ability to jump between alternate realities and gather exotic technology would set me up for life, in or out of the agency. Now, how to spin this to Freddy.

**********************************************************************

Monday, 0800, Freddy Chen, director of the domestic counter surveillance division, enters the room for the morning meeting.

“Good morning folks, how are we today?” Freddy asked, took a sip from his green tea latte, and clicked his pen to take notes.

“Good sir!” The majority of the room answered. The only exceptions were Jason, buried in his briefing notes, and of course, Tom Mitchell was asleep in the corner. Tom was a holdover from the Reagan era. He was great at spotting agents, but the man was as adept at retiring as he was staying awake in early morning meetings. No one in the division could ever land on whether it was years of keeping odd hours, or if the man had ever had a normal sleep schedule.

“Mr. Costas. Mr. Costas, are you with us?” Freddy asked Jason.

“Uh, yes, sir. My apologies, I was just going over my briefing notes,” Jason answered with a slight quiver in his voice. Despite everyone’s assurances that Freddy didn’t hold his past against him, he always had a sense that there was tension between them.

“Well, why don’t you take the front first?” Freddy said, gesturing towards the front of the room.

Jason proceeded to bring up his briefing slides and began explaining how he “met” Raul at Haberdashers. He decided to portray Raul as a technical services officer, going by the code name “Gecko”, with access to a newly developed signals intelligence device the Brazilian Navy was developing. He explained that Raul had loaded the first dead drop with a partial schematic of the device and that he was preparing to have him leave another in three weeks. The only request from Raul was that the US help him commit pseudocide, set him up a new ID, and match the pension he would have received from his home government.

“Sounds excellent, Mr. Costas. I will have legal get started on the paperwork. Mr. Muldoon, I’d appreciate it if you’d contact witness protection, and make sure this ‘Gecko’ has a proper terrarium when he arrives,” Freddy said, turning towards Marcus Muldoon.

Marcus, or Marc as he liked to be called, was a skinny Irish kid that had immigrated to the US to specifically join the SEALs. Unfortunately, he became a BUD/S dud due to a severed tendon in his foot during a training accident. But the kid was lucky, rather than going to the regular fleet, they rolled him into becoming a Spanish linguist. Marc came straight from the Navy into the agency. Or as he put it, “I left the office in uniform on Friday, and came back to my desk in something more comfortable on Monday.”

**********************************************************************

Thursday, three weeks later. Jason’s phone vibrated towards the edge of his nightstand. He answered in a stupor, “hh-hello?”

“WHERE ARE YOU!? We’re briefing the director in fifteen,” Freddy screamed over the phone.

Jason, “I have no excuse. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Definitely. I’ve sent Marc to get you,” Freddy said furiously, hanging up.

How do I explain that my life for the last month has revolved around a strange book, not recruiting a new target? Oh well, I’m sure we’ll work it out. If I can recover whatever this device Raul is talking about. Perhaps, over some chili and salsa. Who doesn’t love the Fire Festival? All the chili and salsa your stomach can handle. Our collective indulgence will smooth things over, hopefully. It doesn’t matter. Either way, the festival provides cover to retrieve the package.

Later that night.

“Alright, I’m heading out,” Freddy said in a jovial tone as he shut the lid of his leftovers, “does anyone want to finish this off, or am I going to have to hear more about my ever-expanding midsection from Elijah?”

“I think I speak for everyone; we’re stuffed. I might be late if I can’t sleep off this food coma,” Jason said jokingly.

“You better not be,” Freddy said snarkily, “and I expect you to have that package soon, or I’m taking over.”

After clearing their table, the group separated. As Jason turned to walk to the bridge, Marc ran up behind him.

“Hey man, sorry I got caught up talking to that girl at the wing stand,” Marc said panting.

“Oh? I wouldn’t have guessed she was your type,” Jason played at conversation, “she has more piercings than your usual fare.”

“Yeah. You got to keep things exciting if you know what I mean mate?” Marc said with a wink, “anyway, you want a ride home?”

“Naw, I’m fine. I need to clear my head. Running that project has me ragged. I’m not used to these long nights anymore,” Jason responded, in a self-deprecating tone. “You heard Freddy. I have to have something more substantial by Monday, or he’s taking over,” Jason continued to assuage Marc’s concerns while throwing him off the scent of anything the agency would find suspicious.

“Sounds good. You got this. See you tomorrow,” Marc said as he turned towards the parking lot.

Jason continued down the sidewalk until he found the bridge from the book.

I still don’t understand why Raul’s contact would load this drop three years in advance. Even accounting for possible differences in time between realities, it’s too risky to load a drop weeks in advance. That’s not the issue now though. I have three years to load this again for Raul. And as soon as I get that device, I’ll be more than capable of covering his troubles. Either way, this is going to ease some of my pain, Jason thought as he slid down the riverbank. Squatting like a troll, Jason reached up under the bridge. It’s there, it’s really there, holy shit!

Jason shoved the package into his bag as he ran off to make the 8:05 bus.

That had to be one of the longest bus rides, after the Curitiba incident, of course, Jason thought as he shuffled his way through the door of his humble two-bedroom ranch home. Hopefully, after this, I can move into a place the court recognizes as suitable for myself and two teenagers.

Slipping off his muddied shoes, Jason walked over to the mediocre table that functioned as his dining room table and home office. He began to cut at the packaging.

Perhaps I should be more careful. Then again, maybe not. As he cut through the final layer of plastic, odd-looking bills began to fall out. What the hell kind of bills are these? Fuck, they’re forgeries! Distracted by the large amount of loose bills, he failed to notice the tracking device that fell out.

“Who the hell makes red Benjamins!?” As Jason expelled the thought, a sniper’s bullet ripped through his window. Splaying what remained of his gray matter across the table, Jason’s body slumped to the floor.

The sniper radioed in, “Lagartixa is no longer in play. Do you want the documents?”

“Roger. Negative. Control says they’re of no value in this timeline without Lagartixa or the modulator. Bless the Empress, Her Eternal Majesty Isabelle II. Bless the Empire of Brazil. May its Light Shine on the World Forever More,” the voice on the other end of the radio responded.

“Understood. Bless the Empress, Her Eternal Majesty Isabelle II. Bless the Empire of Brazil. May its Light Shine on the World Forever More. May we bring Order and Progress to the West again,” the sniper responded as he slid the cover back over his scope, taking his eyes off the apartment.

A few moments later Raul entered the apartment. Crawling along the couch, he raised to a squat, stretched as best he could, slid the book from the table and into his coat pocket. Not knowing whether or not a clearance team would be coming in to retrieve the book, Raul made his way back down to Jason’s crawl space and waited. He was waiting for the perfect time to reemerge from his hideout.

**********************************************************************

Raul began gathering his things. It had been two long weeks, studying his counterpart from this alternate world. It felt strange, for once he was stepping into his own skin. And yet, as always, it was still that of a dead man. Raul, or as he was known back home when not on assignment, Alexandros Costas, had spent every waking moment pouring over Jason’s artifacts. He knew that if he was going to pull off taking over this man’s life, he would have to know every last inch and detail. Luckily, unlike his regular assignments, this one would be a hell of a lot easier, as most of their nuts and bolts were the same. After all, as “Tupac,'' Raul’s handler had explained in his message, their realities were nothing more than a vast multitude of possibilities being expressed on the same relative timeline.

Raul was most fascinated by how knowledgeable Jason was on their shared area of responsibility. The Office of Strategic Services didn’t have time to make so many agencies. They were too busy trying to keep the Second American Republic together. Hell, they often spent more time justifying their existence to Congress than actually doing the work needed to keep the Imperial backed fascists at bay. There was some light in this world though. This US had managed to stop the Business Plot without resorting to a civil war.

Oh, well. I better get on with what I’m here for. I just hope Tupac has a signal up. I don't know how much longer I can leave that modulator in that abandoned warehouse, no matter how safe he says it is. And with that, Raul sighed and opened the hatch of the false wall leading to the sewer.

It had taken four hours, but Raul had finally finished his security detection route. But there it was. A red balloon with the number 99 handwritten on it, a wreath of blue carnations, a banner across the wreath that said “Hope Derr, 1990-1999,” and a teddy bear next to the wreath. Raul approached what to the casual observer would look like a small memorial set up on a street corner. As he walked by, he casually grabbed the bear and kept moving. A few blocks away he finally opened the bear to retrieve his instructions.

Reading the message he could not believe what it said. “Site 9, object 2,” the small slip of paper read.

Site 9, object 2? Site 9, object 2? Are you serious? Does this Tupac have no tradecraft? Or are they trying to get me killed? Why would you use the same drop site, even if it’s a different load signal? Fuck, I hope this wasn’t all a set up by Her Majesty’s Ministry. But why would they go through the trouble of having me killed in a separate timeline? Hell, they used a tracker in the money, like they know I am here, but not where. Raul pushed the thought from his mind, and continued back to the bookstore.

A five hours, and one more security detection route later Raul entered Haberdashers. He made his way to the third shelf, on the second to last bookcase from the back, and slid the book back into place. After ensuring the book was back in place, he walked to the pegboard facing the east window. He pulled the third tab from the left off the ad for lyre playing lessons. Tupac would know he had loaded the drop, as the pegboard was visible through the window. After the signal was in place, Raul made his way to the door.

“Jason, Jason, where have you been? I haven't seen you in a month. Did you get my note?” Mariam called Raul as he reached for the door.

“I think you’re confused, uh, Mariam,” Raul responded, reading her name tag.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” Mariam responded in a perturbed tone. How can he act like this? I know he’s had a crush on me for a while.

Little had Jason known, Mariam reciprocated his infatuation. But Mariam wasn’t the kind of woman to make the first move. She wanted him to woo her. But Alexis had given her enough information that she knew the man was still recovering from his last relationship. That’s why she went outside of her usual nature and gave him the note. Their conversations at the book club were no longer enough. She wanted to come home to a man with his intelligence, both his academic and emotional. She was always amazed at how a man that had been through so much could still be so kind. But still, he had no reason to act like he'd never seen me before. I’ve never seen him this way.

“I’m sorry, I am not this Jason you speak of. Call me what you like, but they call me Raul,” Raul said, pushing past her.

Part Three:

____________________________________________________

Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and if you want to help me create more content, please consider leaving a tip or become a pledged subscriber.

More from this author: